If you really loved me you'd let me kill you
by Gertrude2034
Summary: House meets a woman who may or may not have a deadly secret, whose life may or may not be in danger, and who may or may not let him help her. But he will fall in love. House/OC romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** House meets a woman who may or may not have a deadly secret, whose life may or may not be in danger, and who may or may not let him help her. But he will fall in love. House/OC romance and drama.

**A/N: **Mostly AU, but take it as an early season 5 version of House. However instead of the inevitable descent towards Mayfield, in this story House takes a different path. Rated T for now, with some bad words.

-

* * *

**If you really loved me . . . you'd let me kill you **

_by Gertrude2034_

It was all over in a split second. Less.

One moment she was standing on the curb, reflecting on the several hundred dollars she'd just spent in her favorite lingerie shop, the small, understated pink bag in her hand belying the outrageously expensive – and just plain outrageous – contents inside. Then she took a step.

And the world turned upside down. Well, sideways, at least.

Something hard hit her calf, something else collected her elbow. She felt the road surface bite into the hand she thrust out to break her fall.

Time slowed to the thickness of treacle, giving her the space to realize she'd been watching the traffic signals, not the pedestrian ones. She'd seen a green light and unthinkingly stepped out. Her wrist jarred and the pain speared up her arm as she swore at herself. The lights had turned the _other_ way. She'd just stepped out right in front of oncoming traffic.

_That'd be right._

_Perfect._

_Just what she needed to mark the day – as if it wasn't special enough already._

"Are you okay?" A few worried voices echoed similar sentiments. But for a moment, only a few seconds she told herself, she just wanted to lie there, eyes closed, and pretend this wasn't her life. Surely it wasn't. Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandra Maria Feliciana Di Giorgio would never do anything as gauche as be hit by a car.

But it seemed just plain Alex George would.

And actually, she revised mentally, it was a motorbike, not a car – she'd seen it from the corner of her eye just before it had hit.

"Do you have some freakin' death wish?" An angry voice split through the murmur of concerned ones. A nice voice, she thought, deep and almost melodious, even if right now it held barely contained rage. "What the hell were you thinking?"

_I wasn't really,_ she thought, but the words didn't make it to her mouth.

"I think she's unconscious," the worried voice from earlier said. "Has someone called nine-one-one?"

"Oh for fuck's sake." Still angry, the nice deep voice now held a trace of concern. "Get out of the way."

Hands gently circled her left ankle and probed their way up her leg. Then they were on her left arm, gingerly pressing around her elbow and what felt like a fairly impressive bruise. Then her hair.

Fingers running through her hair like a lover.

No.

Fingers running over her scalp like a doctor looking for a head wound.

But the brief thought flashing through her mind made her realize that she couldn't just lie there and pretend it was all happening to someone else. What if she really did have a concussion?

Worse, what if someone recognized her?

"Hey, what's your name? Come on, wakey, wakey."

Her eyes opened suddenly, blinking a couple of times in the brightness. The owner of the voice and the hands was kneeling next to her, the late afternoon sun behind him. His head blocked the orb of the sun itself so the rays of sunshine shone behind him like a halo. Alex honestly wasn't sure whether to laugh or genuflect at the sight.

"_Mon Dieu_," she whispered, just in case.

"_U__n Dieu n'existe pas_," he corrected.

"Ah, _oui_."

_So not an angel then._ Angels probably didn't go around saying that God did not exist.

He shifted and his hands came to her face. He tilted her head up to meet his gaze and now that the sun wasn't blinding her Alex found herself staring into a pair of the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. They left little room for any other thought.

"Should you do that? What if she has a spinal injury?"

He glanced away from her briefly to deliver a withering look to the concerned bystander. "She _fell over_. I doubt she'll be paralysed."

"What, are you the poster child for sarcasm awareness month?" the bystander snapped. "Don't you think you should be a little nicer given that you nearly killed—"

"Shut up." It was said without malice and yet with a steely enough undercurrent that the bystander did, in fact, shut up.

"The paramedics are on the way," someone else said.

And at that Alex really did come back to her senses. There was no way she was going with paramedics. No way she was going to hospital. They'd want to see identification, they'd want official paperwork and it only took one nurse with a big mouth and suddenly she'd no longer be an anonymous, mousy student with a funny accent that barely anyone noticed, let alone talked to. Which was just how she liked it. Mostly.

She shook his hands off her face. "I am fine," she said, struggling to sit up. She expected blue-eyes to resist, to push her back down again, but all he said was "gently" and he put a hand behind her shoulder to help her up.

Taking in her surroundings, Alex was hit by an almost overwhelming embarrassment. A small crowd of people stood around, some looking concerned, others frankly staring as if she was the day's entertainment. She desperately wanted the ground to open up and swallow her, and it took every ounce of her training and breeding to paste a calm, regal smile on her face and give everyone a gracious look. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. I am sorry to have caused a fuss."

She knelt and then tried to stand, feeling a little shaky, stumbling as she got to her feet. Her almost-angel stood with her and caught her, his arm around her shoulders briefly. "Steady."

It took her a moment to realize that the heel on one of her shoes had broken when she fell. It was the reason she was so unbalanced. "My shoe," she said to no one in particular. She reached down and took both her black leather pumps off, looking sadly at the three-inch heel that now hung uselessly from its sole. A siren sounded in the distance.

"I have to go." She smiled at her blue-eyed fallen angel, still not taking in much more than his piercing gaze. She did notice that he was tall – she had to look up to see his face. At that moment he was frowning.

"You should wait and get checked over."

"Yes, and don't you want to wait and speak to the police?" The concerned bystander from earlier interrupted again, seeming outraged on her behalf.

The other man's frown of concern turned into one edged by panic and anger. "The police? There's no need for police! It was her fault, she—"

She shook her head, holding up a hand to interrupt. "I will be fine. Really. There is no need to involve the police or an ambulance. Thank you for your concern."

The bystander gave an annoyed harrumph before walking away. Blue eyes reached out and grabbed her arm. "I'm glad you don't want to sue me, but are you sure that brain of yours is okay? It's a little weird that you're so unconcerned by the fact that I nearly killed you."

_If only. _It would solve so many of her problems, she thought. But then she'd be dead and her problems being solved wouldn't be of any use to her. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, you were right, it was my fault." She shrugged to dislodge his grip – even though his hand was warm around her arm, comforting.

"You weren't trying to kill yourself or anything that pathetically annoying were you?"

She managed a small smile and a quick glance at the motorcycle he'd parked a few feet away. "If I was, I doubt throwing myself in front of your little plastic Japanese toy would be of much use."

He looked angry for a split second, but then his eyes lit up. It was a strange expression but Alex had seen it before. Like her father just before he walked into parliament, or her brother before he led the horses off in their country's annual steeple chase. _The thrill of battle_.

_Men. _

Alex contained the urge to roll her eyes.

She didn't have time for it. Correction: she had plenty of time. She simply didn't have the patience for it. Her ankle ached now that it held her weight and her arm felt heavy with the promise of pain to come. It was her palm that really troubled her though, burning hotly with gravel rash from breaking her fall. The sting was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

She turned away and lowered her head, not wanting him – or anyone – to see her cry.

"Wait!"

She paused, her stockinged feet already starting to feel the chill of the cold pavement. He was teasing now, and she wondered how many shades and emotions one voice could hold. It really was a very nice voice. How lovely it would be, she thought, to close her eyes and just let him talk. Let him talk and the words flow over her and she'd listen and learn about him and she'd never have to say anything at all.

She probably did have a concussion, she thought. Her brain certainly didn't seem to be working properly if it was given over to flights of fancy like that.

"Don't forget this."

She turned and, if she'd thought she'd been embarrassed earlier? That had nothing. Nothing in comparison to turning around and seeing her well-and-truly-fallen angel, one eyebrow arched in surprise and lustful curiosity, holding a scrap of black and green lace hooked over one finger. Her shopping bag was in his other hand, the side of it torn and the tissue paper spilling out revealing more of the lacy items inside.

Her tears seemed to well instantly, joined by a swollen lump in her throat that she could barely swallow around.

He didn't move, leaving her no choice but to reach out and grab the offending items from him. She stuffed the thong back into the bag, arranging the tissue as best she could to cover her purchases.

Her shoes in one hand, her shopping bag in the other, and her purse hitched firmly over her shoulder where it had stayed throughout the ordeal, Alex turned and strode away as gracefully as she could manage. Her ankle protested sharply, but she bit the inside of her lip until she could taste blood. It was enough distraction to take her focus from her ankle and stop herself from limping.

"I can give you a lift," he called out after her, but he made no move to stop her.

There was a bus stop just around the corner. She could make it that far, she told herself. One tear rolled down her cheek.

Just one.

She always allowed only one. Even today.

-

* * *

-

House stood still for a moment and watched his victim walk away. The crowd that had gathered began to disperse now that the drama was over. He gave his bike a quick once over; no damage. He didn't really expect there to be. It had been a glancing blow – lucky for her, he'd only just been accelerating from a standing start. Lucky for him too, he'd been able to control the bike and stop just a few feet on. If he'd hit her even a couple of seconds later, once his speed had racked up, she wouldn't have been walking away. Probably, neither would he.

She was trying not to limp, he could tell.

_Why? _

He was glad she didn't want to involve the police – even if it _was_ entirely her own fault – but why wouldn't she wait for the ambulance? He knew in some cases people wanted to avoid the cost associated with paramedics and a hospital visit. But the shoes she'd held up, the ones with the broken heel, had those trademark red soles. He couldn't remember the name of the brand but he knew Cuddy harbored an unhealthy obsession for them. Which meant they were anything but affordable.

No, money wasn't it.

And he doubted she was suicidal. Suicidal people didn't usually make the purchase of lingerie one of their last dying acts.

He watched her until she rounded the corner, wondering why he felt an urge to go after her. She was attractive, he figured. The kind of curvy that could run to fat if she wasn't careful, but also the kind of curvy that looked fantastic in the lacy confections he'd just picked up out of the gutter. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a complicated-looking knot, but he suspected it was quite long. Her eyes were the same brown as Wilson's which was a slightly disturbing comparison given he was thinking how warm and soft and sexy they were. Scared too, he thought. But then she had just been hit by a motorbike.

French. She spoke French. Her "_mon dieu_", wasn't just an affectation: she'd understood when he'd answered her. And that accent – for once he couldn't place it, and House prided himself on his ability to locate accents. Something European, definitely. A strong hint of English too. Some American influence in there though, he thought, with the way she said her _R_s.

House pulled his bike off the road and parked it on the sidewalk, feigning ignorance when a paramedic asked him if he'd seen an MVA they'd been called to attend. A store with a sign that matched the torn bag he'd rescued from the road was a few doors up. Without thinking too much further he headed straight for it. It was a good escape from the angry paramedics, anyway.

Once inside, his eyes widened in surprise. It was a cross between a high-end department store lingerie section – the kind he'd shopped at before for Stacy – and the adult shop he went to for DVDs every now and then. Expensive lace vied for his attention with riding crops and nipple pasties.

"Can I help you sir?"

_What was he doing? _House opened his mouth and waited to see what would come out. Sure enough, his brain didn't let him down. "My girlfriend was in here a moment ago. She bought . . ." He glanced around until he found the green and black lace he'd picked up from the road. "She bought that one." He pointed.

"Oh, yes, I helped her." The salesgirl nodded. "That's our _Maryanne_ range. Your girlfriend was quite taken with it. It's one of our most popular styles for adventurous ladies."

_Adventurous ladies, huh? _Nice. "I want to buy her a gift. Something to match."

The salesgirl gave him a smile. "Of course. She bought the bra and thong and suspenders. Maybe you'd like to get the slip? Or perhaps the basque?"

He had no idea what that meant. "Show me."

A few moments later, he was standing at the counter with a dizzying array of lace and ribbons in front of him. Some pieces were such complicated arrangements of fabric and straps he found it difficult to work out how they could be worn. But in response to his request that she model for him, the salesgirl had given a tight smile and pulled out a catalogue to demonstrate the fittings for him.

The afternoon had turned out quite swimmingly really, he thought, as he perused photos that he generally only saw in his . . . _cough . . . gentlemen's magazines_. For a while there he had wondered if it might be very quickly going to hell in a hand basket. If the police had arrived, if he'd had to do a blood alcohol test . . . Just as well the little princess he'd hit had hoisted herself up and off. It was all good for him.

And now he was being shown free porn by a passably attractive blonde.

For an afternoon that had started out the way it had, things were not too shabby.

"What about the brief, sir?"

She held up a sheaf of lace that seemed pretty enough to him, although far more demure than most of the other stuff he was looking at. Then she turned it around and he discovered that the back was little more than a few ribbons holding the lace at the sides together. _Backless panties. Who would have guessed?_

"I'll take those."

"And the slip sir? It will go nicely with the thong she already bought. She did admire it when she was in here earlier."

_Oh yeah, his fictional girlfriend. That was why he was in here after all. _"Sure. And that basque thing." It looked a little like a corset from the olden days. Only better. "And can I have an extra copy of the catalogue to take with me? We might want to order more later." _And Wilson would certainly enjoy having a copy to himself._

"Of course." She packaged everything up carefully in tissue paper and a glossy pink bag, just like the one the woman he'd hit had carried. "That'll be six hundred and forty-three dollars."

House choked. "_What?_" he spluttered. _For three items that he could scrunch up into a single handful?_

"Well, the basque is on sale, so it was fifty dollars off the original price."

It was cheaper than a traffic violation, House reasoned. A lot cheaper than jail and all its attendant hassle and lecturing. And possibly even worth it for the distraction it had given him for the past half hour or so. He handed over his credit card with a shrug. "A bargain's a bargain."

"Would you like me to add it on to her original transaction, so she'll receive loyalty points to go towards her next purchase?"

Then it clicked in House's brain. _That_ was why he was there. "Yes, please."

He casually leaned over as the sales assistant brought up the details on the computer. _Alexandra George_, was all he could see. "Did Alex update her address while she was here?" he asked, pleased with sounding all casual-like.

"Ah, let me check. Is it still apartment twelve, fifty-two Post Street?"

House pretended to nod thoughtfully. "That's right. I should have realized she'd have it up to date. She's the one who takes care of all that in our house." He gave her a goofy grin. "Me, I'm as forgetful as Mister Magoo. Don't know why she puts up with me."

"Well, at least you remembered her birthday."

"Whe—" House opened his mouth to ask, but shut it again fast as what she'd said sunk in. Not fast enough.

The salesgirl barely contained her sneer of dislike. "I hope you're at least taking her out to dinner tonight." A distinct disgust had crept into her obsequious tone.

"Whatever." House grabbed his costly and unnecessary purchases and headed for the door.

_What now?_ he thought as he tucked the underwear bag into his backpack and climbed on his bike. No doubt she'd gone and bought herself some sexy underwear for special birthday cha-cha-ing with whoever was in her life. _What was the point of chasing after her?_

And yet when he accelerated down the road he found himself planning a route home that included a drive-by along Post Street. It wasn't very far away after all, just a few blocks from his own apartment. What could that hurt?


	2. Chapter 2

Alex got off at the bus stop closest to her apartment. She had a habit of getting off one stop early – it was the only real exercise she did. But with no shoes, an aching ankle and the rest of her body feeling like it had been put through the wringer, making life easy on herself seemed like the best idea.

She was almost at her front door before she saw the orange motorbike parked on the sidewalk a little way from her building.

It was entirely possible that it was a coincidence, she told herself, trying to breathe deeply and calm her racing pulse. _Don't jump to conclusions._

But a lifetime of bodyguards and security planning and attempts on family members' lives made jumping to conclusions not just practical but occasionally life-saving.

_Who would try to kill you by running you over with a motorbike? _a rational voice in her head asked. _Besides, YOU were the one who stepped out in front of the traffic. _She had to admit, if it was all a plot, it was astonishingly well conceived and seemed to somehow involve her own, unconscious, participation.

Still, she was on high alert as she put her key in the door and headed inside. She checked every unlocked room twice, turning on all the lights even though it wasn't quite yet dark outside.

_Empty._ No one hiding anywhere, and nothing had been disturbed. Just her hundreds of books, most with a slight layer of dust, the beat-up furniture that had seen better days many years ago, and an unpleasant smell that she suspected was coming from Chinese leftovers in the refrigerator.

She'd only just put down her purse and her shopping bag when the loud buzz of the security intercom almost gave her a heart attack. She debated answering it, but then it buzzed again, conveying the impatience of the person whose finger rested on the button outside.

"Who is it?" she asked hesitantly, holding the old-fashioned phone-style handpiece a little away from her ear as if that could protect her from whoever was on the other end.

"Happy birthday! This is your birthday telegram. I'll sing if you want me to, but I don't do dancing and I don't have a gorilla costume."

It was the voice. Her fallen angel.

She felt a strangely conflicted mix of emotions wash through her: her earlier anxiety ratcheted up a notch, after all, what were the chances that a stranger not only hit her "accidentally", but knew it was her birthday? But underneath, somehow wrapped around the anxiety, was a fluttering sense of excitement that something – anything –vaguely interesting was happening in her life after so many days of dull monotony.

Even if it was an assassination attempt.

And then, in a deeper and more hidden place than all that, came the sad and lonely realization that whatever his motivations, he was still the only person who'd wished her a happy birthday that day.

"I don't—" She broke off, not entirely sure what to say.

"Is your boyfriend coming around?"

"What?"

"Is your boyfriend coming around?" He sounded frustrated by her lack of an answer.

"What do you know about my boyfriend?" Answer a question with a question, she thought – hopefully she had a chance of getting to the bottom of all this. Because now, perhaps as a response to the stale adrenaline running through her veins after all the excitement – she was starting to get cranky.

"I know you're not married," he said. "No ring. And from looking through the windows of your apartment, I couldn't see any male clothing or sporting equipment, so I'm guessing you don't live together. I went into the lingerie story after you left. The woman there told me it was your birthday, but there are no cards in your mailbox, no flowers in your apartment. I figure your boyfriend must still be on his way over to wish you a happy birthday." He paused. "Or girlfriend, I guess," he said, sounding thoughtful. "I hadn't considered that, but of course it's a possibility. I would imagine that those lacy things would appeal more to a man's sensibilities than a woman's, though. Then again, I'm not an expert. Happy to discuss it further with your girlfriend when she arrives."

She fell silent for a moment, swallowing back a somewhat hysterical laugh. The lesbian thing was way off base, but otherwise she was both impressed and terrified by his powers of observation. If a simple stranger on the street – because she was rapidly deciding that was all he was – could gather that much about her, despite all her precautions, just how safe was she?

"What do you want?" she asked, needing to be sure, hearing the shrill note in her voice. "Did my father send you?"

"Uh, no."

"Did Frederick send you?"

"Who's Frederick?"

She didn't answer, but her hand rose almost without her conscious permission to hover over the button that would let him through the security door.

"Can I come in? I have a birthday present for you. And I wanted to . . . uh, apologize for hitting you with my _little plastic Japanese toy_."

He mimicked her accent precisely.

_It would be madness, total and utter careless madness, to let him in. _"You can come in. Just for a moment."

-

* * *

-

He hadn't really expected her to let him in. To be honest, he wasn't even sure he wanted to go in anyway. But the alternative was to turn around and head home. Sit on the sofa and drink whisky and watch television and think about how his leg hurt and his life was slipping away.

Just that afternoon, before he'd taken the afternoon off and headed out on his bike with no particular destination in mind, he'd been sitting at his desk, thinking. They were between patients.

He was bored.

Beyond bored.

It had been weeks since he'd had a case that had even vaguely taxed his powers of deduction. He wondered if he truly had reached some professional pinnacle that meant nothing would challenge him anymore.

His play with Foreman and Thirteen's relationship had grown dull now that they actually seemed committed to each other. Taub wasn't interesting enough to deserve House meddling in his life. Kutner seemed to bounce from Star Trek convention to Star Trek convention in juvenile delirium.

Cuddy was off being a mom.

Wilson was off doing whatever it was that Wilson did when he didn't want to involve House. That usually meant he'd found a woman, although for some reason House didn't think that was it this time. But he didn't care enough to find out.

And personally? He'd mastered Eddie Van Halen's arpeggios; he'd finally finished that song he'd begun composing back in high school. He'd even recently taken part in a monster truck rally, paying an exorbitant amount of money and basically signing his life away in release forms in order to secure a ride-along with a minor competitor. It had been fun, for a moment.

Paula had left the job and he'd found a new hooker, one who was prepared to do things that Paula wouldn't allow. But even those illicit thrills had become worn far too quickly.

There was nothing left.

House had thought about suicide but then realised he'd tried that before too.

There _really_ was nothing left.

Until that afternoon when he'd hit a woman with his bike, picked up her lingerie, and found himself fascinated by her eyes and her mysterious accent. It wasn't much. But it was something.

The buzzing sound of the door release stirred him from his thoughts.

He stepped inside figuring that whatever was going to happen next, it had to be more interesting than dialling a pizza and watching the _Frasier_ marathon on TV that night.

-

* * *

-

The first thing House noticed was that her apartment was beautiful, spacious and elegant, but furnished as meagerly as a monk's cell. He hadn't been able to see too much from the windows he'd peered into from the street, but inside it was obvious. The furnishings didn't in any way match the quality of the building or the condition of the room. And what was with the expensive shoes and lingerie? he wondered.

If you just looked at the furniture, you would take it to be a student's hovel – everything was at least second-second-hand – although it was clean and tidy. But the shabby furnishings and cinderblock bookshelves contrasted sharply with the high ceilings, ornate window architraves and extravagant fireplace that dominated one wall of the living room. Not to mention the sheer size of the room and the beautiful parquetry flooring. A set of French doors led out to the spacious garden House had glimpsed over the fence during his earlier reconnaissance.

The second thing he noticed was that despite her protests at the scene, she really had been injured in her run-in with the Honda. Not, he could tell, that she was about to admit it.

"So," she said, closing the door behind him and taking a few limping steps into the room. Her eyebrows rose a little in surprise when she saw his cane, but she said nothing else.

"So," he echoed.

"Why did you follow me?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"For some reason I doubt that."

_There was that accent again_, House thought.

"You appeared angry, more than concerned, about what happened," she continued.

"Well it could have been nasty for me too, you know. If I'd been going any faster, it wouldn't just have been you being scraped off the pavement."

She flushed. "I know. I am sorry."

"Why did you do it?"

"Why did you go into the lingerie store and ask about me?" she countered.

"I don't know."

"Neither do I."

They fell silent, staring at one another. _Really nice eyes_, House thought. Long eyelashes. Light olive skin. Pity about the smear of dried blood on her temple – must have come from her hand when she'd pushed a strand of hair back. He wondered if she even realized it was there.

"I suppose you had better come in and sit down," she offered eventually.

House nodded and she gestured to one of the worn sofas in front of the fireplace. He took a seat and watched as she gathered a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses – tumblers rather than stemware – from the kitchen. Although he could only see a sliver of the room from where he sat, it appeared to be another mess of contrasts, the latest stainless-steel appliances with mismatched china and cheap glasses visible in the glass-fronted cabinets.

He also noted that she was automatically providing him with a drink without even asking if he'd like one – a bottle of Italian red – and he figured that was a further clue to a European heritage he'd guessed her accent exemplified.

She limped as she joined him back in the living room. And grimaced when she twisted the screw cap off the wine and poured the ruby-red liquid into a glass.

"_Salut_," she said, handing him a glass and then clinking her own against it.

"_Joyeux anniversaire_," he responded, taking a drink without moving his eyes from her. She flinched at his birthday greeting and he felt an instant uncertainty. What if she'd provided a fake birth date to the store? People did that all time. Was he making a complete idiot of himself?

"Is it actually your birthday today?" he asked.

"Yes, it is."

"So what are you doing to celebrate?"

She gave a little snort.

"Don't like birthdays?" House understood that.

"Not exactly. I mean, that's not quite it."

"Oh."_ What on earth did that mean? _"Out with it. What number?"

She frowned, hesitating before she answered. "Thirty-six."

"Thirty-six? That's nothing."

"Nothing? No, I suppose not." She winced as she sat back in the sofa opposite him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"No, I mean, really. Do you want me to look at your ankle? It's obviously giving you problems."

An unflattering sneer crossed her features. "Half an hour ago you didn't think I needed to wait for paramedics."

"No, I said you didn't need to wait for the police."

"I did not need either."

"Okay good. So you're not in pain then."

"I didn't say that."

House let out a frustrated sigh that hid just how much he was enjoying the verbal sparring. As far as he was concerned this was foreplay. "So, let me look at your ankle."

"And what would you know about it even if I did let you look?"

"I'm a doctor." House had to admit he was used to a certain amount of respect accompanying that pronouncement. Respect, deference and – if his luck was in – occasionally awe. Of course it wasn't always like that – personally, he blamed the Internet and reality television for today's more cynical views.

And so it was.

"So what?" She shrugged.

"When is your boyfriend coming over?"

"Soon." Her eyes dipped away.

They both knew that there was no boyfriend. No girlfriend, either, House would bet.

"So what are you doing for your birthday?"

"Dinner. Dancing. A cake. With candles."

Her chin was raised, trying to be brave in her bluff, House thought. "Sounds nice." He shrugged. "Actually no, it sounds hideous. I hate birthdays."

"Why?"

"My parents were killed in a fiery car crash on my tenth birthday. I've hated birthdays ever since."

"Oh my Lord!"

Her eyes went wide and her expression was so sympathetic House almost wished the story was true, just so he could deserve her obvious compassion. Maybe she'd give him a sympathy hug. A sympathy kiss. Hell, a sympathy fuck might not be too much to hope for.

"Really?" Her eyes pleaded for truth.

"No, not really," he admitted. Despite the potential benefits, the lie would be an irritating one to put up with and would no doubt lead to many questions about his family.

"Pah!" She gave him a disgusted look and waved her hand dismissively before reaching for her glass of wine. "_M__enteur dégoûtant_," she muttered under her breath.

House ignored her calling him a filthy liar, but it made him remember his initial curiosity about her.

"Do you prefer Alex or Alexandra?"

She started, almost spilling the glass of wine she'd been sipping from. "What? How do you—"

"You're a very loyal customer of that lingerie store."

"And they clearly have a very poor understanding of privacy laws."

"Alex or Alexandra?" he pressed.

"Alex." A wistful expression crossed her face. "Only my family calls me Alexandra." She said it Alex-_ah_-ndra. "What about you?"

"Greg. Greg House."

"Doctor."

"Yep."

"Where?"

"Princeton Plainsboro."

"Excellent. Now I know where to send my lawyer when I find out my ankle's broken."

House laughed. "What about you?"

"Student."

_Big surprise._ "Yeah, no kidding. Student of what?"

"Literature. Completing my doctorate."

"I bought you a birthday present," he said, changing the subject.

"How nice of you."

Although her voice didn't change from its polite chill, she let a little chink in her armor show at that point, House thought. A little flash across her face that he wasn't entirely sure he could interpret. But if he was forced to guess, he'd go with _sadness_. He knew some people – women, especially in his experience – occasionally got depressed at the reminder that their life had clocked over another year. Perhaps her biological clock was chiming loudly. Perhaps it was something else. Perhaps, he thought with a flash of insight, it was just the only birthday present she'd been offered. He didn't like making a fuss of his birthday, but that didn't mean he still didn't appreciate the inevitable card and gift and dinner that Wilson would foist upon him despite his protests.

He reached over and opened the zip of his backpack, pulling out the pink bag and throwing it carelessly her way. "Here you go."

"What?" She started in surprise as it landed on the sofa next to her.

_Time for a tactical retreat. _"Have a nice night," House said, picking up the glass of wine she'd poured and downing it one before gathering up his things and taking a step towards the door. "If your ankle is still bothering you tomorrow, come into the clinic at Princeton Plainsboro Hospital and ask for me."

She looked up at him, confused and a little stunned, one hand tentatively resting on the pink bag as if she wasn't quite sure it was safe to touch. "But . . ." Her shoulders slumped.

"It's been a pleasure, Alexandra." He made sure to say it the way she had: _Alex-ah-ndra_. He gave her a little bow and then let himself out.

As he climbed back on his bike, House wondered what might happen next. He had no idea if she'd seek him out, but he kind of hoped she would. She was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all week.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Alex found herself waiting in a white, cold, clinic room, nervously clutching a bag of lingerie. When she'd asked for Dr Greg House at the nurse's station the nurse had raised her eyes in a surprised and suspicious kind of way. It had almost made her retrace her steps and beat a hasty retreat.

Hospitals made her nervous. She guessed it was from when her Grandmother had died. Not only was it awful watching a woman she loved succumb to cancer, but there was all the added stress of her father's hurried succession and what it meant for every member of her family, including her.

She straightened her red cashmere sweater and charcoal grey suit pants, picking off invisible pieces of fluff from her sleeve.

_He was taking ages. _

More time for Alex to become even more anxious. There was something about the cold starkness of the room that made a little piece of her insides quiver and writhe. Something scary, like threads of a remembered nightmare that she couldn't quite piece together.

She fidgeted and then paced, desperately trying to keep a rising edge of panic at bay. And then, after another five minutes had passed, decided to leave. The walls had begun to feel like they were closing in and it was becoming hard to breathe. Alex tried hard to be rational about it, but her fear was making that difficult. She didn't need to see him anyway – she could just leave his extravagant purchase at the desk for him to collect when he was ready.

_Why hadn't she thought of that earlier? _

Striding to the door, she opened it, just as someone pushed it from the other side. There was a moment of frozen time when it seemed like they would simply topple into one another, but thankfully she regained her balance enough to step back and he held on to the door tightly, staggering into the room.

"What the—?" He sounded angry again, but then his expression changed when he saw her. He closed the door behind him with a smirk, as if she had been pulled there by the force of his magnetism instead of the need to return an entirely unseemly gift.

"I'm here to—"

"How's your ankle?" he interrupted, changing tack and keeping Alex completely flustered. He sat down on a wheeled stool and rolled towards her, now looking, she was amazed to see, actually _concerned_.

"My ankle's fine," she insisted, backing away from him until her butt rested against the examination table in the middle of the room.

"Sure?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "You're still limping."

"It's nothing," she said waving a hand dismissively.

"Ooh." He grimaced and made a sympathetic noise, reaching for her left hand. "That's nasty. Sorry, didn't notice that last night."

Alex froze as his fingers encircled her wrist and he brought her hand closer to his face to examine it. For a surreal moment she thought he might kiss it, and she had a flashback vision of a series of male heads bowed over her hand at some receiving line at a royal function back home.

He didn't kiss it.

"You've got a few pieces of gravel embedded in this, and if we don't get them out it could get infected. It'll hurt, but I'll give you a lollypop afterwards if you're a good girl." He gave her a cheeky grin and despite herself, Alex felt her mouth curl upwards in response.

"Good," he said, as if a tiny smile was all the permission he needed. "Sit up there while I get everything together."

Alex thought about protesting, but then she figured she probably did need medical attention for her hand. It was really sore – she'd woken several times in the night, the hot throb of it disrupting her sleep. Still, he needed to understand that was not why she was there. "I came to return your inappropriate gift," she said, sitting up on the bed and putting the pink bag down beside her.

"It's entirely appropriate," he said as he gathered a few things together on the nearby bench. "What would be _inappropriate_ is if _you_ gave it to _me_. I'd look terrible in those panties. They'd make my ass look huge."

She ignored the joke. "I can't accept it," she said, resolute.

"Fine. Donate it to charity. I don't care. Give me your hand."

He didn't sound angry, just matter-of-fact, Alex thought.

And then all thought disappeared in searing pain.

"_Ow_!" The cry was instinctual. He was rubbing her poor damaged hand with what looked like a pumice stone, and not gently either. Tears welled and she tried to pull her hand away, but he was holding it firmly in place.

"Don't be a baby," he admonished.

It was over quickly, at least, and he turned away again to do something with the items on the bench. Alex was grateful for the moment of respite to pull herself together and she wondered if he was doing it purposefully. The pain, his sudden appearance, and her earlier irrational terror, all combined to make her feel extremely unsettled.

"Okay, just some antiseptic and then a light bandage. But take the bandage off once you're home and let it get some air."

"Fine." She knew she sounded terribly ungrateful.

"This is going to sting."

This time Alex was prepared and she bit her lip at the hot bite of the cotton on her hand. He smiled up at her, as if he was entirely enjoying the moment. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she just glared at him. That only seemed to make his smile wider.

He wrapped her palm lightly in a white bandage and just as Alex hugged it to her chest protectively he swooped down to capture her ankle. Surprised, she just watched in silence as he gently took her shoe off, rotated her foot and pressed around the ankle bone. It brought to mind some backwards Cinderella scene.

"It's fine, just a light sprain. Did you ice it last night?" He glanced up and she nodded. "Good. Keep that up and rest it as much as you can, you'll be fine."

He rolled the stool back from her and snapped off the latex gloves he'd donned to treat her hand.

"So, where are we going for dinner tonight?" he asked.

"What?" So far things were not going to plan, Alex thought. And now a dinner invitation? "Dinner?" she echoed, hating that she sounded so idiotic.

"Well clearly hundreds of dollars of lace weren't enough to make it up to you. So dinner's my next best offer."

"I'm not having dinner with you."

"I'll pick you up at seven." With a flourish, he produced a red lollypop from his jacket pocket and held it in front of her.

Alex reached out to take it automatically. When she did, he smiled and turned and left the room.

Alex shook her head. Her hand still throbbed painfully. But her ankle was tingling warm, as if his touch had left some part of his essence behind. A tingle that went all the way up her leg and made other parts of her anatomy sit up and take notice. Like her nipples – she could feel the tingle of them beading against the lace of her bra. She looked down and sure enough, her red sweater was clingy enough to show her point of view to all the world. More importantly, to him.

No wonder he'd been so confident in his dinner offer.

And with a sinking feeling of destiny or fate or some such fantasy, Alex knew she'd be ready when he arrived.

-

* * *

-

They arrived at the restaurant, their small talk having been a little strained and awkward in the cab. Alex felt out of her depth – earlier that day she'd had the sudden and unnerving realizing that what this evening held was officially a "date". She'd never been on a date, as such, and the butterflies in her stomach began to dance. That kind of social engagement had never been part of her past – had never been possible, really – and she'd avoided it since arriving in the States – just as she'd avoided any kind of social interaction. Formal dinners with heads of state she was fine with – a casual dinner with a single man? She wasn't so sure.

And then one of her worst fears came to pass.

He offered her a hand to help her out of the cab and, as she rose to her feet, she saw the cluster of photographers, huge cameras slung around their necks, all lounging casually around the entrance to the restaurant.

He closed the cab door behind her; Alex stood frozen to the spot.

"Ooh, goody," he said, eyes lighting up. "There must be someone famous in town. I'm glad I made a reservation. Let's go find out who our dining companion is." He grabbed her hand – the uninjured one – and pulled her towards the door.

"No, Greg," she whispered, feeling sick to her stomach. She couldn't possibly run the risk that one of the photographers might recognize her. Or that through pure bad luck, they caught her in one of their photos of whichever celebrity they were there to capture. All it would take was some detail-focused picture editor to notice the _other_ celebrity in the background and her peace would be shattered.

He stopped when she didn't move. "What?"

She pulled on his hand until he turned around to face her, unknowingly shielding her from the photographers' sights.

"I don't want to eat there," she said weakly, not meeting his eyes.

"Why not? This is the best place in town. Took me quite a few favors to get a table at such short notice."

He seemed confused and slightly annoyed, Alex thought. She had no idea what to say, because there was no way she could tell him the truth. But she sensed he would have little patience for lies.

"I have a . . . a phobia about being photographed," she said, figuring that it was partly truth.

"What?"

"_Please Greg_." She resorted to pleading. "There is a nice Italian place around the corner. Could we not go there instead?"

He frowned, but shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

They walked around the corner to the small Italian bistro and got a table towards the back. Silence reigned while they studied their menus and ordered.

Alex was just wondering if he might be about to declare the whole thing a terrible mistake and walk out, when he gave her a broad smile and started telling her about some poor woman he'd seen in the clinic who wondered why her diabetes wasn't improving even though she'd cut down to just nine candy bars a day. He was charming and entertaining – telling her all kinds of stories without asking any questions about her. Alex began to relax again and once her food arrived she realized she was actually having what would classify as a pleasant evening.

"So, how was your birthday?" he asked. "Enjoy your present?"

"I didn't give it to charity, if that is what you're asking." Focus on the lingerie, not the birthday, Alex told herself. It was bad enough that her thirty-sixth birthday marked twelve months since the time limit of her father's unofficial truce on her absence had run out. She knew that this year her birth anniversary was a turning point in more than one sense. Continuing to stay away and avoid her duty for much longer was going to make life even more difficult. But, for now, she didn't want to think about it.

"Good. It would have been a waste." He gave her an assessing up and down stare.

"I haven't worn them either, in case you were wondering."

"Thought never crossed my mind," he said, giving her deliberately innocent look that made her smile.

"Thank you for the gift," she said, genuinely meaning it. "It was nice of you. _Merci_."

"Where is your accent from? I can't place it."

She sipped her wine and then looked at him over the rim; she sensed that this was likely to be the tip of the inquisition iceberg. "Where do you think?"

"Europe, but I'm not precisely sure. Clearly you speak French, but it's not a purely French accent. Perhaps a touch of Spanish or German? With a few years at an English boarding school? And at least several years in the US."

She couldn't decide whether to be impressed or concerned about his summation.

"So?" House demanded. "How did I go?"

"I've only been in America for a year and a half," she corrected. But then she shrugged. "Otherwise you're pretty well spot on. Five years in an English boarding school, one year at Swiss finishing school. University in Paris."

"What's your first language?"

"French. And English. And Spanish. I was raised in a multilingual home."

"What, no Mandarin?"

"Very funny."

It was just as she was beginning to relax that he reached for his wine glass and asked, deceptively casual, "So what was all that with the photographers? And don't tell me you don't like having your photo taken."

"Isn't that a reasonable explanation?" she said, reaching for her own wine and taking a deep swallow. _Yes, this was why she avoided getting involved with people_.

"One thing you should know about me is that I don't suffer fools lightly."

She nodded. "Yes, I can see that. I feel quite sorry for some of your patients."

"It's not my fault that they're morons."

"No, but it's not necessarily their fault either," she countered.

"Photographers," he prompted, sinking any hopes she might have had that the subject had been changed. She sucked in a deep breath, wondering what to say. It was clear he was a very perceptive man. She doubted any of her usual lies would work. What she needed was the right mix of lie and truth that would have enough authenticity to convince him, without giving herself completely away.

"My family is . . . well, kind of famous."

"_Kind of _famous?"

"In Europe, anyway. Not so much here. But over there they are fodder for gossip magazines and paparazzi."

"Famous for what?"

"Oh you know, being part of high society, the 'glitterati', as they say." _Trying to explain the royal lineage, the politics and heritage of her family was too much to deal with. _

"So they're famous for being rich?" He sounded disbelieving.

She nodded and shrugged. It wasn't something discussed in polite company.

He narrowed his eyes as if he knew there was more to the story. "And why are you here?" he asked.

"I'm studying." "_Running away" sounded so cowardly._

He frowned as if trying to mentally piece together a particularly difficult jigsaw puzzle. "But wouldn't the photographers know that? Know that you're here anyway?"

_Damn_. _She really didn't want to get into that one. But she knew she had to give him something – enough to keep him satisfied so his prying didn't go any further. _

"It's a secret that I'm here. I wanted to get away from the attention and the pressure of a life in the public eye." She was definitely not about to mention her desperate escape from her father's political machinations and the repulsive arrangement he had made with Frederick. If it wasn't for her mother's regular secret deposits into her American bank account, Alex would be destitute, cut off – forced to return to her family and a fate she considered worse than death. Yes, it was overly dramatic, but that was her life. "That's why I need you to keep my secret for me. I just want to live normally and if it's widely known that I'm here, that won't happen."

He smiled and looked satisfyingly intrigued. "Kind of a princess and the pauper thing, hey?"

She flinched internally at his use of the word "princess" but did her best to keep her face neutral. "Exactly. I'm just another student like any other."

"Literature, right?"

Alex nodded.

"So what exactly are you studying?"

Alex relaxed slightly at that. He seemed to have bought it – enough to move on to the next topic anyway. With an inner sigh of relief, she energetically explained her doctorate thesis on nineteenth century French poet Rimbaud, although she didn't mention that her thesis had hit a wall about eighteen months ago and that since then she'd really been doing more lecturing and tutoring than writing.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. They talked about poetry and science and Europe and, less culturally, about where to get the best pizza in Princeton and what TV shows they both liked. By the time they were in a cab and back in front of her apartment building, Alex realized she'd had the nicest evening she could remember in a long time.

"Well, thank you Greg. It has been a pleasure." She had just put a hand on the cab's door when he turned and lifted a hand to her cheek, leaning in to kiss her. It was a light, sweet kiss, tentative, but full of promise. Afterwards he pulled back and gave her a smile, his hand still gently touching her face.

"Good night Alexandra," he said. "I'd like to see you again."

She hesitated. She wanted a repeat of the evening more than anything. In fact she was pretty sure she wanted a repeat of the evening that didn't end in a cab at her front door, whatever that meant. But it was so dangerous. For him as well – if Frederick found out she was dating an American man – _any_ man – his fury would be . . . unbridled.

At her silence, his hand dropped from her cheek. "But if you don't want to, that's fine too." His eyes darted away and Alex felt her heart clench in sympathy for his sudden despondency.

"It's not that," she said hurriedly, regretting her lengthy pause. "It's just that – I'm complicated, Greg. I come with secrets."

"I like secrets," he said with a cheeky wink.

"But . . . if we do this . . . if we see each other . . . you would be put in the position where you would have to lie and keep secrets too."

"Everybody lies." He shrugged. "Besides. I treated you in the clinic. That gives you doctor-patient confidentiality. I'm legally bound not to reveal anything about you."

Alex smiled at his persistence. It felt so nice to be wanted in that way. To have someone genuinely interested in _her_, not for who her family was or how much money and political sway they held.

"I guess you are right," she said eventually.

"Give me your number," he said, pulling out his cell phone and punching in the numbers she gave him.

A few moments later, Alex walked into her apartment and closed the door behind her. She rested against it for a while, smiling to herself. Something nice had happened to her. She honestly couldn't remember the last time it had.

-

* * *

-

Alex's only real friend in Princeton – if that was the word – was Kate, a fellow lecturer at the university. "Friend" was probably a stretch to describe the kind of relationship they shared. They had lunch, once a week or so, and liked to complain to each other about the bureaucracy and workload that accompanied a lecturing position.

Kate didn't know the truth about Alex's background, but she did understand that there were some difficulties in her life that Alex didn't like discussing. She was patient about that and seemed prepared to take things as they were.

But Alex was brimming with the news of her date and despite the fact that it was probably premature, she couldn't help herself from spilling some details at lunch the following day.

"I went on a date last night," she said, knowing it came out of nowhere, slightly embarrassed by the eagerness in her voice.

"Alex! That's great news!" At first her friend seemed slightly shocked – no doubt taken aback by the unaccustomed intimacy of the news – but then Kate's eyes shone with genuine pleasure.

"It was a lovely evening," she said.

"So, who is he? How did you meet?"

"Well, you'll never believe this, but he was the one who ran me over." They'd already shared the story about Alex's run in with motorbike; the first thing Kate had asked was about the bandage on her hand.

"The motorbike guy?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"I know."

"That's really strange."

"I thought so too. But he's a doctor. At first I think he just wanted to make sure I was all right. But then we ended up going out for dinner."

Alex avoided explaining about the lingerie. She hardly ever spent any money on herself. Her mother had bought the apartment for her, way too large for one person, no doubt imagining Alex would live the kind of life she'd lived in Europe. But she had no need for three bedrooms, two baths and a living room the size of a small ballroom. However, it was free accommodation, so Alex had furnished it simply and just locked off the rooms she didn't need. She lived frugally, but once a year, on her birthday, she liked to buy herself a present – particularly given that no one else would. It was too dangerous for her mother to try to send anything, in case her father, or any other member of the family, discovered it. It was risk enough that she had the regular stipend wired to her account. Alex still didn't know exactly how that worked, but was just grateful to see the money appear once a month.

Last year she'd bought herself the expensive black stilettos that had been ruined in the accident. This year it was lingerie. It was her one, annual, little indulgence just for herself. Despite the monthly generous deposits, she was very careful with money and kept a little aside in a secret place – because who knew when her funding might unexpectedly stop? Who knew when she might have to go on the run again from Frederick's grasp? And if that happened, she'd need every spare penny.

"Are you going to see him again?" Kate asked.

Alex nodded. "Yes, I think I'd like to."

"Oh Alex, I'm so glad to hear that."

Alex was surprised to see Kate's eyes had filled with tears. Surprised and embarrassed. It was a reminder of just how out of her depth she was. Even her only "friend" was shocked that she was going out with a man.

"It is nice," Alex said simply, squirming inside.

"I'm so glad you're reaching out to people again. After . . . everything . . . I thought you'd never . . ." Kate broke off and looked away, embarrassed.

Alex frowned.

"I've been worried about you. But this is great." Kate reached across the table and squeezed Alex's arm.

Alex pulled back, feeling the gesture was overly intimate. She knew Americans liked to hug each other – even total strangers hugged – but even after nearly two years in the country she still wasn't used to it. Europeans kissed each other, of course, but as a member of royalty, Alex wasn't usually greeted casually in that way.

"Sorry," Kate muttered, pulling her hand away from Alex's frozen arm. There was a strange, pained expression on her face that Alex couldn't interpret. But she quickly adopted a polite smile. "So, when are you seeing him again?"

"He's going to call me," Alex said, glad that things had returned to normal.

"That's great."

Alex had a sudden thought. _What if he didn't? _Maybe he'd gone home and decided she was too complicated and too much trouble to be bothered with. What if he hated the fact that she was being so mysterious and cagey about her past? She held in a sigh. There was nothing she could do about it, she figured. She'd just have to patient and wait. And hope that for once, Princess Alexandra Maria Feliciana Di Giorgio might be allowed a little fairy tale of her own.

-

* * *

**A/N: **This story is primarily 'T' rated, but there's a little 'M' stuff in the next chapter, so to be on the safe side I will be changing the rating. Thanks to everyone for your lovely reviews, it's so nice to hear from you.


	4. Chapter 4

After their fourth date had once again ended in a kiss, House was getting a little antsy for things to progress beyond there. Kissing was, all things considered, a nice thing to do. But kissing that never went any further? Not so much.

Their dates had been enjoyable nonetheless. They'd been for dinner once again. Then to see a movie and for a walk to get gelato afterwards. It had kind of felt like being back in high school, but in a good way.

A few days later they'd gone to a sculpture exhibition which he hadn't been thrilled with, but it had been enjoyable making lewd jokes about what the abstract shapes represented, getting dirtier and dirtier until she couldn't stop giggling and had pushed him out of the gallery.

The last date had been at her place – she'd cooked _coq au vin_ and they'd drunk a bottle of red wine and just as he'd been settling in for the night, wondering how to make the move into the bedroom, she'd kissed him and bid him _bonne nuit_ as she'd shown him to the door. On that night they'd done a bit of kissing and he'd copped a feel while they'd been sitting on the sofa waiting for the food to cook. She had lovely breasts, a nice, round C – he knew her size from his experience in the lingerie shop – enough to almost fill his hand and to make him definitely keen to see more.

But. Tonight. It was their fifth date; they'd known each other for two weeks now. This was it, he was sure. She had invited him for dinner again, so it had to be.

She was chatty, full of news about her week, asking him questions about his work and thankfully he had an interesting patient to tell her about. Once again she cooked something French and delicious and full of butter that made House determined to ignore his cholesterol levels.

After dinner they sat on the sofa again. She put the TV on, but he wasted no time in pulling her in close and kissing her. It didn't take long for breathing to get shallow, their talking to grow to whispers and groans, and panties to get moist. At least he hoped that was what hers were doing. He leaned into her and she lay back against the sofa, pulling him over her. He kissed her again, one hand moving to the prim, charcoal grey shirt she wore over tight, tight jeans, stroking over fabulously silky skin until he felt the lace of her bra. Was it the green and black number? he wondered, his lips nibbling down her neck.

Just as his fingers began to breach the lacy restraint, he felt her body stiffen beneath his. He held his breath.

"Greg," she said ominously.

"Yes?" He closed his eyes, hoping against hope she wasn't going to ask to go slow or take their time or one of those other tired clichés. He was _really_ in the mood. That didn't happen as often these days as it had when he was younger and, when it did, he wanted to take advantage of it.

"I'm sorry it's just . . ." She trailed off.

"Are you playing _The Rules_?" he asked.

"The what?" Her surprise seemed genuine.

"_The Rules_. It's this book. It tells women not to sleep with men because then they'll never call them back." He raised his head to look her in the eyes. "I _promise_ I'll call you."

She gave him a weak smile. "It's not that. I really want to sleep with you."

"What then?"

Her mouth compressed into a tight line and then she blurted out, "I'm a virgin."

"Wh—?" He gasped a laugh as he sat up, pushing back against the sofa. "No." He laughed again, and it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He shook his head. "You know it's funny, but I think I just hallucinated and you told me you were a virgin."

Alex sat up too and curled her feet beneath her like a child. "You don't understand. My family . . ." She waved her hand aimlessly. "My father is very traditional. My upbringing was old fashioned. I was watched closely."

"But you went to boarding school. To college." House protested.

"Yes, and I was watched at every moment. I had a bodyguard."

"Exactly! Why didn't you sleep with him?"

"With Max?" She looked amused and faintly disgusted by the idea.

"You're thirty-six years old." House said, half to himself.

"Yes."

"And you're a virgin." It was starting to sink in.

"Yes."

"Right." He ran a hand through his hair. He was still amazed and frankly confused by what it meant. He'd only deflowered one girl, and that had been back in college. And even _thinking_ the word "deflowered" made his gut clench.

"Look, I could have just not told you," Alex pointed out, sitting up straighter. "I doubt there'd be any physical evidence by now. It's highly unlikely you're going to stain the sheets with my virgin blood. Is that not true? You're the doctor. Exercise and horse riding and tampons and . . . and I played hockey in high school!" she finished definitively.

House snorted. "I don't know how they play hockey in _your_ country, but over here it has very little to do with hymens."

"Oh!" She growled with frustration. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean," he admitted. "But come on, give me a minute. You can't have expected me not to be a little shocked."

"I know you are shocked," she said, her voice quiet. "And I'm sorry. But I didn't want this to be another secret between us."

"_Another_ secret." That was almost enough to end the night for House. Despite having spent two weeks with the woman he knew little more about her past than he'd learned that first night. Not that he'd been particularly forthcoming about himself either, he had to admit. But still, something about her tight-lipped paranoia around her past niggled at him.

She sighed, but didn't say anything.

House shifted on the sofa, unsure of what to do next. He was attracted to Alex. More than he had been to any woman since Stacy. He had been enjoying spending time with her – and, despite his irritation about her secretiveness, he had to admit that was also a large part of his fascination with her. He wasn't planning on sleeping with her and then dumping her – in fact he was hoping that he might sleep with her and then go on doing that repeatedly until they both got sick of it or each other. Or simply needed a rest. Or he solved the puzzle of her and his brain decided it was time to move on. So what difference did this make?

A lot.

He knew.

It meant he was going to be "_the one_" for her. Forever and ever, when the question got asked at some stupid party, Alex would remember he was her first. And when he inevitably fucked this up, as was his way, it would all be that much harder. But then, he reasoned, it wasn't like she was a teenager. She was an emotionally mature adult.

An emotionally mature adult who'd never had sex.

More selfishly, it put a huge pressure on the standard and skill of his lovemaking. Instead of the usual nerves and excitement and fumbling of sex with someone new, now he was going to have to give her an "experience". House liked to think that over the years he gained a measure of talent, but he wasn't particularly sure he wanted to put it to the test in quite that way.

Nah, whichever way he cut it, it wasn't good.

"Do you want to leave?" Alex asked. She wasn't happy, but she didn't seem tearful either.

"I want to have sex," he answered truthfully.

"With me?"

He heard the tremble in her voice. He remembered that old line about sex being like pizza – even bad pizza was still pizza. And just because someone had never made a pizza before didn't mean that the pizza wasn't pizza, and even if it was a beginners pizza it didn't mean that pizza . . . _Stupid metaphor_, he thought, cutting off that train of thought.

"Well . . ." He shrugged. "I could do it by myself, but where's the fun in that?" He paused and cocked his head to one side. "Well, obviously, there is quite a bit of fun in that, but that's not the point."

She smiled tentatively.

"C'mere." He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Let's go to the bedroom. And see what happens."

She took his hand and he let her lead the way down the corridor. He'd never been into this part of the apartment except to go to the bathroom and all he'd noticed then was that all the doors were closed. He was surprised when she opened the first door they came to, to reveal a bedroom much smaller than the rest of the place had led him to expect. Alex turned on a lamp beside the bed and House was sure the wallpaper had little ducks with red umbrellas and galoshes marching across it, but he didn't pay it all that much attention. There was a brunette with molten chocolate eyes that was far more captivating than some stupid duck-patterned wallpaper. He gave her a smile of what he hoped was a combination of reassurance and seduction – if such a thing was possible.

"I'm nervous," she admitted. "But I really want to do this."

He chuckled and drew her towards him. "Me too." Soon she was pressed against him again, where she'd been before the conversation had started. He realized they were both still fully clothed. "Now." He kissed her lips. "How much of this do I need to explain?" He lowered his head and kissed her neck. "What do you need to know?" He pulled the lapels of her shirt aside and his tongue darted out to taste a line along her clavicle. She shivered and took in a sharp breath.

"I think I have a grasp of the basics," she said, her voice breathy.

"Oh really? So what do we do with our clothes, then?" He put on a teacherly, lecturing tone.

"Take them off?" She made it a question, but he knew she was teasing.

"Good girl," he praised, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her shirt and nuzzling the soft rise of her breast. He felt her hands scrabble over his back, reaching down for the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it up. He pulled away from her to help her pull it over his head.

"Mmm, nice," she said, unconsciously licking her lips as she stared at his bared chest.

"I'm glad you approve." His hands went to her buttons. "Do we have the green and black lace on?" he asked. "I remember the sales assistant telling me it was popular with _adventurous_ virgins."

"I am adventurous," she said, a touch defensive. "I just haven't had sex."

House didn't bother to answer, just undid the rest of her buttons and helped her shrug the garment from her shoulders. "Ye-e-e-ss," he said under his breath, the green and black bra looked as sexy as he'd imagined, her full breasts bubbling over the edge of the lace.

Her fingers traced his shoulders and then his chest, threaded through his chest hair and played with his nipples. Her touch was firmer and more confident that he expected and he hoped that boded well for later. He lowered his head to mouth her nipple through the lace of the bra and heard her sharp, indrawn breath. Her fingers moved lower in response, down his chest, following the line of hair to where it disappeared into his jeans. He paused for a moment, expecting to feel her fingers undo his button and fly, but they didn't.

He pulled back. "Let me help." He toed his shoes off and undid his jeans, pushing them halfway down before sitting on the bed to drag them, his boxers and his socks, all the way off. "Your turn." He nodded towards her and she smiled, hands taking her own denim to account, undoing the jeans and sliding them off far more elegantly than he had.

It was scar reckoning time, House knew. The first time someone saw it was always tough for him – bringing back memories of all the pain that accompanied it. It had healed somewhat over the years and wasn't as visually shocking as it first had been, but by anyone's measure it still wasn't attractive.

Predictably, she grimaced as she sat down on the bed on his right side. She laid a tentative hand against his thigh. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. You had nothing to do with it."

"I'm sorry that it hurts you."

"Yeah. Me too."

House rapidly felt his desire ebbing and made an effort to arrest the decline. "Show me those panties."

"I'm not wearing the panties, it's a thong."

"Well you'd better turn around so I can check them out."

She gave him a surprisingly saucy smile before standing up and doing a little twirl. With her back to him, she stuck out her butt and waggled it. "You like?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

"I like. Virgin lap dances are hot."

She winced and turned back to face him. "Are you going to keep joking about that?"

"Yes."

She rolled her eyes.

"Take out your hair," House prompted. He realized that every time they'd been together, her hair had been tied back.

She gave him a smile and reached behind her, removing pins and an elastic band. The action made her back arch and her lace-covered breasts stick out, so it was a good move on many levels, House reflected. Her fingers threaded through her hair as she released it and House resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. A long, wavy curtain of brunette silk slid over one shoulder, long enough to partially obscure her breast. It was better than he could have imagined.

House put his hands behind him and hitched himself back onto the bed properly. Alex knelt on the edge and then moved on her hands and knees over to him. He quickly mapped out a strategic plan in his head – what, when and how much. He sat up suddenly and flipped her on to her back, lowering his torso over her. His lips were just inches from hers and she looked up at him with those big, warm chocolate eyes of hers. Her pupils were dilated, he was glad to see, and her breathy gasps made her nipples graze against his chest with every inhalation. That gorgeous curtain of hair was spread over the pillow beside her and a faint vanilla fragrance wafted from it.

"This is really sexy," she said, looking up at him. Her accent, with her voice all low and breathy like that, sent a surge of blood running southward in his body.

"This is sex," he answered. He kissed a line down between her breasts, over her stomach, his hands straying back to her breasts as his lips learned her curves. He lifted his head when he reached the lace barrier of her thong. "Much as I love the ensemble, it's time to ditch it."

She gave a little laugh and arched her back to reach underneath and undo her bra. As her stomach curved up in front of him, House was hit by a nagging worry. Something just wasn't . . . _right_. He paused for a second, trying to concentrate on what was wrong. But he couldn't put his finger on what it was that had piqued his curiosity. After a moment's thought he decided to push it to the back of his mind. It was probably just the whole virginity thing anyway, he figured.

Soon enough she was naked and House lowered his mouth to her breasts as he threaded his fingers between her legs. She gasped and closed her eyes, letting out a little moan when he brushed against her intimately. He deepened his contact, both mouth and hands, building a rhythm that soon had her panting and making sweet, undeniably erotic, little murmurs and gasps. When she held her breath, he increased the pressure and was rewarded with her cry of pleasure, her fingernails digging half-moons into his shoulder.

Before she had time to come down from her peak, he positioned himself between her legs. With a gentle but persistent pressure he thrust inside her, going slowly, giving her time to adjust to him. Her eyes stayed screwed shut until he was seated deep inside, halting his movement for a moment. Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him, an amazed and awestruck expression on her face.

"That feels great. It doesn't hurt at all," she whispered.

"Good."

She wrinkled her nose. "It feels kind of . . . familiar. Like . . . _destin_."

House wasn't really in the mental headspace to think about destiny. He'd reverted to a more primitive kind of intellect, one that demanded satisfaction.

He began to move, slowly at first, watching her face for discomfort. She seemed anything but, and House realized she was right – there was nothing physical that would have given her secret away. If she hadn't told him, he'd never have known, and at that moment he was glad she had. He was proud of himself, proud to be doing this for her, and, with a depth of emotion he didn't have the energy to pursue, worryingly satisfied that he'd saved her from some horny teenager or some lecherous guy who wouldn't have made it special for her.

Carried away by his chivalrous thoughts, it wasn't long before he realized he was pumping with abandon and it took every fiber of willpower he had to pause. "Are you okay?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"Don't stop," she said, and she crossed her ankles behind his legs, pulling him closer and deeper.

He let out a ragged mutter of thanks to a god he didn't believe in – sex was the only time he prayed – and resumed his pace. Before long he could feel himself reach the precipice and then, with a rough groan torn from the back of his throat, his vision went black and his body surrendered to pleasure.

Moments later he came to his senses, realized he must be crushing her, and rolled to his side.

They both lay there, breathing deeply, saying nothing. But the silence was the good kind.

After a little while, Alex reached over and clasped his hand in hers. "Thank you Greg," she said softly.

"Welcome," he said simply.

She lifted her head up on one elbow to stare down it him, her face pink and her smile broad. "Can we do that again?"

"What, now?"

She giggled, a tinkling little laugh that had House's insides melting. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and wound his arms around her, pulling her tight to him.

"Maybe in the morning?" she asked, cheeky and sleepy.

"Maybe in the morning," he echoed, feeling the pull of sleep dragging him down. He was happy to go with it. He felt . . . satisfied.


	5. Chapter 5

"No."

House was still asleep when he heard it, a voice sounding panicked and fearful. It didn't quite penetrate his brain, though, until he associated it with the movement in the bed next to him.

"No! No!"

He blinked, bleary and momentarily confused before he remembered where he was and who was in bed with him.

"Bath. It's . . . no. Not the . . . bath!"

Alex's legs thrashed as if she was drowning. She was becoming more hysterical, but House chuckled under his breath. He wasn't quite sure if he heard her right, but he was sure she was saying "bath". Baths were one of his favorite things in the world, but clearly in her nightmare, they were anything but.

"Alex, wake up." He shook her shoulder lightly. "It's a nightmare." He realized she could, of course, have been talking about the place, Bath, in England. Anything was possible with her mysterious background.

"No."

Her nightmare held on stubbornly and House shook her again, calling her name more forcefully. "Alex!"

She shuddered and her eyes opened, blinking, wide and terrified. "_Que s'est produit_?" she asked. _What happened?_

"_Il est okay, __vous avez tous raison_," he said, telling her everything was okay and hoping she believed him. To be honest, the look on her face unsettled him more than a little. She looked almost unhinged.

Her eyes closed again and she took a deep, shuddering breath.

Now that she was conscious, House reached out to hold her, knowing that if he'd done so earlier he could have earned a knee in the groin for his concern. When he put an arm around her he realized she was shaking and sweaty. It must have been one hell of a nightmare.

"It's okay," he said again, murmuring against her forehead. She lay curled and shaking in his arms.

After a good few minutes she finally seemed to calm down.

"I'm sorry," she said eventually.

"What was that about?" he asked. "You were terrified."

"I don't remember," she mumbled.

"You were calling out the word 'bath'," he reminded her. "Was it the place or the tub?" He put a deliberately cheerful tone into his voice.

A long shiver went through her body. "I don't remember," she said again.

"Doesn't matter."

She lay silently for a while longer. House was almost asleep again when he heard her. "Thanks, Kevin," she whispered.

That she'd used the wrong name vaguely registered in House's sleepy brain, but he wasn't awake enough to question it.

-

* * *

-

Alex woke up and stretched. House was still asleep next to her, but she could tell from the light streaming in the window that they'd slept late. It didn't matter to her, it was a Saturday; and his schedule seemed completely without routine. It seemed to her that his work revolved around people calling him on his cell phone whatever time of the day or night and, if it didn't ring, that meant he was free.

Without waking him, she got up and pulled on a sweatshirt and track pants, heading for the kitchen where she made coffee, pulling a couple of croissants from the freezer and heating them in the oven. Her mother would cringe at frozen pastries, but Alex had long since gotten over her wistful longing for proper French baking.

She stretched again as she waited for their breakfast to heat. She had a couple of stiff muscles in her thighs, but other than that she felt fine. A quick check in the bathroom while the coffee maker did its thing had confirmed her suspicions: no blood.

What would that have meant if she'd followed her father's wishes and gone to Frederick's bed, his virgin bride? Would he ask for a refund if the crimson guarantee of her purity hadn't appeared? Would he have accepted her explanation or demanded the head of her non-existent lover on a platter?

_Would he have been as caring and as gentle a lover as she'd had last night?_

More importantly, what did it mean now? Frederick still wanted her for his wife. He still expected her to be a virgin. Her father would have no different expectations.

She shrugged. There would have been no proof either way.

Today was going to be a good day, she decided, as she filled a tray with coffee, croissants, jelly and butter. She pushed all other worries to the side and headed back into the bedroom.

House stirred when she shook his shoulder. "Wake up, I brought coffee."

He cracked one eye open, spotted the tray of goodies and then yawned and stretched extravagantly before propping himself up against the pillows.

"Service for a servicing, I like it," he said crudely. He gave her a quick grin.

She smiled back, unable to keep the lightness she was feeling inside from showing. It was funny, she'd never thought of her virginity as a burden before, but something was definitely different now. Something inside her had shifted.

After placing the tray carefully in the middle of the bed, she climbed in on the other side. "What do you want to do today?" she asked.

He gave her a wink over the rim of his coffee cup. "What do _you_ want to do today?"

She felt her face heat up, cursing the blush that gave away what she was thinking.

He gave a short, knowing laugh when she shrugged and smiled shyly. "Oh God, from virgin to nympho. What have I done?"

Alex cleared her throat haughtily. "I was thinking, _excusez-moi_, that we could spend the day getting to know one another."

"You meant in the biblical sense, didn't you?"

"Well, that too," she admitted. Because it was true.

"Does that mean you might actually answer my questions about you?" His voice was still light and casual, but she knew he was serious.

"Hmm. Maybe." She'd been bearing the weight of her secrets for so long now, the idea of confiding in someone was suddenly tempting – and she'd never been as close to anyone as she was to him. Almost ever. She wondered if the result would be a further development of this lightness she currently felt.

"I know one easy way to find out more about you." He raised his eyebrows and then twisted in the bed around to the nightstand next to him, pulling open the drawer with a flourish.

"No, wait!" Alex reached over to stop him, too late of course, trying not to upset all the food and hot coffee between them.

"A-ha!" House rolled back with a clutch of books in one hand. "Now I know your dirty little secret," he said, narrowing his eyes with a distinct look of glee.

He shuffled through them like they were a deck of cards, throwing them on the bed in front of him once he'd perused each cover. Each book featured a couple, in various clinches, in various states of dress, all staring longingly and lustfully at each other.

"So it's Rimbaud by day, _The Ruthless Billionaire's Secretary's Duty_ by night," he said, reading from one of the covers.

"Hey, don't knock it unless you've tried it." She reached out and tried futilely to grab the book from his hand. He held it above his head, easily out of her reach. Alex wasn't going to get into a game of keep-away with him – she slumped back against the pillows and crossed her arms with a pout.

Once she fell back on the bed, House brought his arm down and opened the book he was holding. "_Blaine Carson ran a hand through his dark curly hair, the only thing about him that wasn't perfectly sculpted,_" House read aloud. "_His suit fit him like it had been molded to his angles, but even the expensive Italian tailoring couldn't contain his aura of power._" He looked over at Alex. "Really?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

"Why not?" she defended. "Don't be judgmental. Even gourmet chefs eat takeout every now and then. It's like takeout food for the brain. Easy. Fun. No analysis required."

House shrugged. "Kind of like hospital soap operas."

Alex frowned. "You watch hospital soap operas?" Her voice lifted in disbelief.

"Now who's being judgmental?"

"Which one?"

"All of them, but I'm particularly fond of _Prescription Passion_."

"Why would a doctor want to watch medical soaps?"

"Why would a literature professor want to read trashy romance?"

Alex bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I get it."

"Good."

She paused for a moment before giving him a sideways glance. "You know what else those books are good for?"

"What?" House asked distractedly, he'd gone back to reading the book.

"Ideas."

"Ideas for what?"

"For the shower we're about to have. Together."

He looked away from the pages and crooked one side of his mouth up in a smile. "Oh, really?"

-

* * *

-

A few hours later they were strolling down the street, window shopping. Alex had insisted on going outside – it was a gorgeous day, bright sunshine, blue sky, a gentle breeze. The weather matched her mood.

House protested that he wasn't one for romantic strolls, but Alex turned it into a shopping expedition and promised him another indulgent French dinner if he'd accompany her to the grocery store. They were just taking the long way round.

"Hang on a sec," House said as they walked past an OTB. "I just remembered I got a tip on race five." He checked his watch. "I've still got time. Wait here."

Without pausing to hear her response, he disappeared through the entrance. He could move fast when he wanted to, Alex reflected. She sighed and continued on, pausing at the window of the next store, an electronics shop displaying the very latest in big-screen TVs. One of those entertainment programs was on, she noticed dimly, one of the ones that track the lives of celebrities, invading their privacy. She watched absently, her mind on other things, like what to cook for dinner and, more enticingly, what might happen after that.

An image on the screen startled her out of her erotic day dream. A fuzzy photograph, clearly taken from a long distance with one of those huge telephoto lenses. It was her. Sitting on a yacht in a yellow bikini. It must have been taken a couple of years ago, she thought. Probably just a few days before her father had told her of her impending betrothal to Frederick. The terrible scene, begging, tears, threats – her father was unmoved, her mother sat beside him weeping. Finally, after her mother's intervention, her father had granted her twelve month's grace time to finish her studies and then return to do her duty by her country and her family.

She was late home; she'd broken her curfew. By about a year.

She leaned closer to the window, straining to hear the words of the reporter, but all she could catch were random snatches of dialogue that made no sense. In the meantime, the screens in the shop window showed synchronized multiple versions of herself looking back at her – photographs from various social and formal events, even one of her holding a baby and smiling like a politician.

Her heart skipped a beat when fingers entwined with hers just as the show moved on to its next unfortunate victim. She turned, eyes wide, to find House standing next to her. "Did . . . Did you see that?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, though she tried hard to keep her voice steady.

"What?" He peered into the store window. "The hideous amount of money people will pay for these things?" He waved at the expensive televisions. "It's outrageous isn't it? Especially when you can get them for free if you know how to work the system."

_Was he pretending he hadn't seen?_ He'd walked up just as a photo of her in a ridiculously extravagant gown had flashed on the screen – there was no way he could have missed it.

Perhaps he wasn't paying attention, Alex tried to reason. Perhaps he was still thinking about his horse race and not concentrating.

Or perhaps there was something more sinister going on than she first realized. Was he pretending not to have noticed to gain her trust? _Could he have been sent by her family? Could he be connected to Frederick?_

Suddenly Alex felt like the day had clouded over and a shiver went through her.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded hurriedly. "I'm fine." She felt like untangling her fingers from his, but she realized that the only way to discover his true agenda was to keep him close. Besides, she could be wrong. _She hoped she was wrong_. But there'd never been anyone in her life she could trust – why should she start now? Then again, perhaps that was the whole point. Learning to trust someone.

She gave him what she hoped was a normal smile. "Shall we head to the grocery store? I feel like fish tonight."

-

* * *

-

Over dinner that night, she could feel the magical night of lovemaking they'd shared, followed by their relaxed, happy day together, receding further and further into the distance. Whether it was her mood affecting him or something else, Greg was sinking into a funk, getting snappy and bad tempered.

She'd cooked a usually fail-safe fish casserole, but was having trouble swallowing it and not just because of her growing anxiety – it didn't taste right. Perhaps it was like that movie, the one in Spanish, about the woman whose emotions affected her cooking. When she was happy the food was delectable, when she cooked feeling sad she made her dinner guests sick.

_What happened if you cooked feeling churning anxiety? _

_Inedible fish casserole._

After several minutes of eating in silence, Greg's cutlery hit his plate with a clatter. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been as sour as yogurt left out in the sun since I went to the OTB."

She shrugged. What could she say? He was right.

"Do you regret last night?" he asked.

"No, no, I don't, it was wonderful," she said, talking over the top of him in her eagerness to correct that wrong assumption.

He smirked a little, but then his face fell back into its serious inquisition mode. "Good. So what is then? And before you answer, you should know: whatever happens between us, I'm not going to let you change my life."

Alex's mouth fell open. He must have seen the story on the televisions. She recovered from her shock, feeling a sense of relief that at least he was questioning her on it. It meant he wasn't from the enemy's camp. "I'm sorry Greg. I can't help it. It's the way I was brought up; the family I was born into." She struggled to find the words to explain.

"That's fine – you keep your traditional little morals and I'll keep mine and we won't discuss it again."

She shook her head. "That's not it. Don't you see that 'traditional morals', as you call them, are what's got me into this?"

"Into what?" He looked confused.

"What were you talking about?" She backtracked, trying to work out where the crossed wires were.

"Your clear disapproval of my gambling."

"What?"

"I work hard, I earn a lot of money, and I'll be stuffed if I'm going to let _anyone_ dictate how I spend it."

He sounded genuinely angry; Alex had never heard such a tone in his voice. It was a little scary, especially when it was directed at her as it was now.

"I don't care about your gambling," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Well, I mean, obviously I would care if I thought it was a problem for you. But clearly it's not. And, as you say, it is your money."

He deflated in front of her eyes, looking almost disappointed that she'd solved the disagreement before it could escalate into a full-blown fight. "Oh, well, that's good then," he finished lamely.

"My apologies for the quality of tonight's meal," Alex offered after a short pause.

"What do you mean? It's great."

"Thanks for saying that, but I know it's not. I'll make crepes suzette for dessert to make up for it."

"Sounds good."

They fell into silence again, but this time it was far more comfortable. Alex was starting to relax into thinking that everything might just be okay after all. But she should have known, sharp as he was, that he wouldn't let her slip go by.

"What did you mean when you said your traditional morals 'got you into this'. What's 'this'?" As he spoke, he took a second helping of stew from the cast iron pot in the middle of the table – the only bright point of that particular moment.

"Pah, let's not spoil the night." She reached over and grabbed the bottle of wine, topping up both their glasses.

"It doesn't have to spoil anything," House said, putting his hand over hers, guiding the wine back down to the table. Once it was secure, he took her fingers in his. "Tell me."

His piercing blue gaze was inescapable. Alex wondered if the CIA knew about him – because when it came to interrogating spies, one look from this man would have anyone's secrets tumbling out. She swallowed hard, but realized she had little choice but to share – something at least. Not everything – she couldn't do that, her royal blood needed to stay hidden – but she could share some details of her life. She had no idea what kind of future the two of them could have, but the present was wonderful and she'd be happy for it to continue for a while. That could only happen if they opened up to one another. The trick was to open up enough, but not too much.

"I told you I had secrets."

"You did."

"And I told you my family was famous."

"In Europe, yes. Socialites, wealthy, etcetera."

"Sort of."

"Sort of what?" He blew out a breath in annoyance. "Alex this is going to be really annoying if you make me drag everything out of you. Just talk."

She nodded. "Okay. Well, sort of rich. Not incredibly wealthy. I mean, it's all relative I understand. But in comparison to our peers, our family is not very well-off. My father made some bad investments. We have large estates and responsibilities and . . ." She trailed off. Explaining it to him like this brought home the selfishness of her actions. It wasn't just her father she was defying. People's livelihoods depended on the Di Giorgio family's solvency. _Was it fair to ask one person to give up their life in return for the good of many communities? _

"Go on," House encouraged, giving her hand a squeeze.

"My family has a very respected history." Alex was choosing her words carefully. She had to find a way to make sure to leave out her true surname – once he had that he was just a Google-click away from knowing everything. She knew that as long as he was looking for Alexandra George, there wouldn't be much to find. And for now Alex wanted to be the one in charge of the revelations. "We are not in the spotlight so much, but our heritage is well established. You have heard the term 'blue blood'?"

He nodded.

"Yes. This is something that means little to me, but a lot to others. Joining our family – say through marriage – is something many people aspire to."

"Hmm." He sounded displeased by the very idea.

"And recently my father needed money. So we have the blood, but not the money. In my father's mind, we need someone who has the money and wants the blood."

The man sitting opposite her took in a deep breath and let it out in a hiss. He dropped her fingers to grip the table instead.

"And so two years ago I was betrothed. To a man named Frederick, a wealthy German industrialist. He is vaguely related to some Bavarian royalty, but—" She caught herself just in time. She'd been about to say that his royal blood was nothing in comparison to hers.

"And so you ran away."

She nodded. "It's cowardly, I know. But Frederick and I grew up together. We spent time together as children – enough that I know what he's like. That I . . ." Alex stopped herself from shuddering as she remembered him bullying one of the servant's children, then torturing the child's cat for further revenge after he'd been punished for the act. Frederick was a cruel, vindictive child, and he'd grown into a cruel, vindictive man.

"Enough to know you don't want to marry him," House interpreted.

She gave him a grim smile. "Exactly."

"So what? Is your family searching for you? You're not exactly on the lam, here, you have a job, you have an apartment . . ."

"My mother knows where I am. She sends me money. I think she runs interference for me. So far, no one has come searching for me."

"Well given that you snubbed this Frederick asshole, I would guess you'd be _persona non grata_ back home. Perhaps your father doesn't want you to return."

"My father publicly gave me twelve months to complete my studies. Then I was to return and marry."

"When was that?"

"Two years ago."

"And you haven't been back? Haven't spoken to Frederick? Your father?"

Alex shook her head.

"What are you going to do?"

"What else can I do? Get on with my life. I refuse to be dictated to."

House shrugged. He looked as if the entire revelation was far less serious than he'd been expecting. Perhaps that was a side benefit of having built up the secrecy – whatever the reality, his imagination had no doubt come up with worse. But still. There was no need to share the fact that Alex was positive her father and/or Frederick would come looking for her before long. Until then, she had this wonderful American man to enjoy.

As she smiled at him, he frowned and narrowed his eyes. "Alex, why has it taken so long for all that to happen? I mean, you're thirty-six; you're not exactly a spring chicken. Surely if your father was going to marry you off, he'd have done it before now. And if he wanted to find you, it wouldn't be that hard. A private investigator would—"

Alex was immediately defensive. "You have no idea what it has been like! And why do you think I live like this?" she said, spreading an arm to cover the furnishings in the room. "I have to deal with the fact that if they come looking for me I might have to leave at a moment's notice."

He regarded her suspiciously but then he relaxed and seemed to come to the decision that he'd accept what she'd said. For now. Alex had no doubt that he had plenty more questions saved for later. Which was fine. For now she wanted to live like Scarlett O'Hara and leave anything difficult for tomorrow. "Eat up," she said. "I'll make a start on dessert. I'll save some of the sauce." She gave him a shyly seductive look. "We might be able to make _creative_ use of it later."


	6. Chapter 6

House had been seeing Alex for just over three months before he went to confession.

He wasn't entirely sure why he had been keeping it to himself; perhaps he just didn't want to hear Wilson's predictions about how badly House was going to mess it up. Because while he knew that about himself, hearing someone else say it would make it irrevocably true. And House didn't want to screw this one up if he could possibly avoid it. Alex was intelligent, witty, stunningly attractive and a fantastic cook. Once she'd loosened up, she was also proving to be quite the little firecracker in bed and for that House figured he owed a debt of thanks to the writers of trashy romances.

He was in a relationship, he was in love. She was kind and generous and sexy – if a little screwed up around the edges, but then who wasn't? And she seemed to return his feelings equally. He was hoping against hope that things might stay that way for a while.

"House," Wilson said in that tired way of his, as if he wasn't sure whether to expect punishment or pleasure from his friend's appearance. House knew that was exactly why Wilson was friends with him.

"Wilson." He sat down opposite Wilson's desk, twirling his cane in his hand.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"_I kissed a girl_," House sang, "_and I liked it. The taste of her cherry chapstick._"

Wilson frowned, but then seemed to understand House's slightly obscure message. "Do I take that to mean you've met someone?"

"Indeed."

Wilson blinked slowly. "And?"

House shrugged. "And nothing."

"Fine. Good for you." Wilson sat back in his chair and the two men stared at each other in silence for a good minute. Then Wilson sputtered and leaned forward again. "You're going to make me do twenty questions aren't you?"

House smiled. "Where would be the fun otherwise?"

Wilson let out a heavy sigh. "Of course, _fun_. What was I thinking? Okay, so here we go. Name?"

"Alex, Alexandra George."

"Job?"

"Lecturer and PhD student at the university."

"What discipline?"

"Literature. Specifically French poetry."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Baggage?"

"Lots."

"What, kids? Ex?"

House smirked at the idea. "No, no kids. Just a murky family history."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"Looks?"

"About five-nine, long brunette hair, brown eyes. Great rack."

Wilson held up his hands. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Nope." House knew he was smiling too broadly, but he couldn't help it.

Wilson shook his head. "House, when you fall, you fall hard."

House nodded. "Yep." Wilson shouldn't be surprised. No one should be surprised. Gregory House did everything at an extreme. Falling in love wasn't any different.

"So when is she moving in with you?"

"Already moved in with her."

Wilson gave a little start of surprise. "Really?"

House shrugged. "More or less." He still went to his apartment. But despite her crappy furnishings and tiny bedroom, he seemed to spend most nights at hers. It somehow made him feel young and carefree to live like a student again.

"How'd you meet?"

"I ran her over with my bike."

"Ha ha."

House stayed silent.

"House?"

More silence.

"You _ran over her with your bike?_"

House liked it when Wilson's voice went all high pitched and girly like that. "She's fine now."

"Good." Wilson's forehead scrunched up. "So what's the family drama?"

House couldn't help taking in a deep breath. He was trying to be patient about Alex's reticence to share her past, but it was becoming irritating. "I know part of it, but I'm sure there's more. I was thinking that Lucas could—"

Wilson held up a hand. "House don't you dare tell me you were thinking of having your girlfriend investigated."

House shrugged. "She wouldn't know, and I might—"

"House," Wilson said in that exasperated tone he'd perfected. "You can_not_ have a private investigator look into your girlfriend's past. It's just not right. You have to learn to trust someone, you idiot. You two will share information when you're ready."

"Yeah but—"

"How would you feel if the situation was reversed? If she investigated your life and found out some of the stuff your Dad did to you? Don't tell me you wouldn't hate coming home to have her confront you with that."

_Wilson did have a point when you looked at it that way. _Now that he thought about it, Alex had never asked him any questions about his own family. Why should he need to know more than he already did about hers? "Okay, so I don't call Lucas," House admitted reluctantly.

"No, you don't call Lucas. You put your trust in her."

"So three Hail Marys and an Our Father?" House asked.

"What?"

"Bye, Wilson."  
-

* * *

-

Back in his office, House jumped on the internet – after all, Wilson hadn't explicitly banned _that_. Over the past few weeks, whenever he had spare time, he'd been learning more about the European social set. He'd been tracking down Fredericks and Alexandras – only hampered by the fact that there were so damn many of them. Could those Europeans not think of any more creative names? What was wrong with Brittney and Miley?

He'd been surprised actually, at how much he was enjoying the search. House had always been interested in history and he'd thought he knew more than the average person about the world's past. But he was rapidly learning that he knew hardly anything about the complex and twisted world of European landed gentry. More often than not he'd sit down to do some searching and find almost an hour had passed as he'd read with fascination about something like the Hapsburg Empire and all the political machinations therein.

He had come to realize that while Alex's story had seemed far-fetched at the time, now that he was reading more about the world she'd come from, it was becoming easier to accept that it was entirely possible. Of course such things as mercenary marriages were common a couple of hundred years ago, and House knew that kind of tradition didn't just die out. It simply became more hidden, less obvious. It wouldn't be politically correct for a modern father in the twenty-first century to publicly announce an arranged marriage for his daughter in the way it would have been in Victorian London, for example. But for a secret arrangement to be drawn up between two dominant men involving power, prestige and money in exchange for a woman – well that was entirely probable. Worse things happened every day.

House set aside the nagging feeling that it all felt a little like rationalization. He ignored the instincts that told him that there was more to Alex's story – more than what she'd told him. He pretended that he wasn't still unconvinced it was the truth.

Why?

Because he was happy. He remembered the afternoon that he and Alexandra had met. The bone-deep ennui that seemed to have settled over him. The sense that he was sliding down a steep hill and all that his future held was a nasty tumble until he finally crashed at the bottom. He had had no idea what that crash might have been – suicide? Nervous breakdown? Climbing to the roof of the hospital with a semi-automatic?

Whatever, being with Alex had halted the inevitable decline House had felt himself on. And that was worth putting up with a little uncertainty. Worth putting his insatiable curiosity to one side for a while.

He turned back to his computer. Today he was going to find out what it had been like to be a Medici.

-

* * *

-

Alex's day hadn't been going well. She had spent the morning struggling to finish marking a pile of papers that had to be returned to students that afternoon. She normally would never have left things to the last minute like that, but the weekends she had previously spent undertaking such tasks were now devoted to far more pleasurable activities like cooking and going to see movies and spending all day in bed.

Her lecture that afternoon hadn't gone smoothly – the data projector had failed and, while she normally didn't depend on PowerPoint slides for her teaching, that day's topic had been imagery in poetry and she had specifically needed to show students the photographs and paintings she was referencing.

All in all, a crappy day. One that only some lusciously rich risotto and several scoops of decadent vanilla ice cream to follow would solve. Along with a hug and a kiss and perhaps a little love from the man who shared her life now.

Alex could never have believed that a simple motorbike accident could have such life changing consequences. Because now, even her worst day was made sweeter by the fact that she was going home to him. Sure it was possible he'd be grumpy or in a snit with someone that he took out on her. But at some point in the night, probably just before they fell asleep he'd cuddle her close, apologize, say he was a horrible old misanthrope and that didn't deserve her. And Alex wouldn't argue, but she'd give him a kiss and say an old blessing in French and then they'd sleep.

She had never believed that her life could be so simple and yet so full. Her work was fulfilling in itself, she found a great reward and pleasure in teaching that made her wonder if she really wanted to finish her thesis. She loved having a man to share her life, someone to take care of, and to be taken care of by him in return.

It wasn't anything like the fairytale romances she liked to read: it was better. Because it was real.

And just like that she'd cheered herself up and she floated through the produce section squeezing avocadoes and selecting the freshest asparagus with a dreamy, silly smile on her face.

It wasn't until she was on the way out of the grocery store that Alex became conscious of the man in the green overcoat. But when she did, she realized it was at least the second time she'd seen him that day – she'd spotted that same coat outside the faculty building as she'd left that afternoon. She had noticed him because the weather was getting increasingly warmer and his heavy coat had seemed out of place.

As Alex walked through the car park she tried to act nonchalant, but he was watching her, she was sure of it. She felt a bolt of fear and adrenaline rush through her system to the point that her legs began to shake. She had taken the bus to the grocery store, but she felt a sudden need to get out of there, fast, and began searching the busy road for a cab.

She hadn't felt like this in a long time. The past few months with Greg had lulled her into a false sense of security. Before she'd met him, she'd been constantly on alert, watching for suspicious activities, nervous about every new person and situation. She'd never let herself relax. But with him around she had let her vigilance lapse. And now she was very likely going to have to pay the price. It was possible that someone had found her. Someone was tracking her.

Right now. Right when her life was finally coming together.

_It's not fair! _

Alex shook her head at herself, trying to remember that at this point escape was more important that self-pity. She began wildly waving down a cab as soon as she reached the sidewalk. Luckily one pulled up quickly and she got in and gave her address in a rush before falling back in the seat with a long out breath.

Trying not to be too obvious, Alex twisted in the seat as the cab took off. She scanned back to where the man had been standing, just outside the grocery store entrance. He wasn't there anymore and she couldn't see him anywhere nearby.

She took another deep breath and let it out, trying to calm down.

From now on, she had to be on high alert. If she saw the man in the green coat again . . .

It had been a wakeup call, that was all, she told herself. Just because she'd seen the same person in the same jacket twice in one day didn't necessarily mean anything. All it meant was that she had to stop being so careless. She had to stop thinking that Greg could somehow magically protect her. Because when it came to Frederick Gutenberg and her father – they were men who wouldn't let anything stand in the way of what they wanted. If they showed up, Alex would have no choice but to run away again. She'd have to leave Greg and run, because _no one_ would be able to protect her.

From now on she had to be back on her guard. At all times.

-

* * *

**A/N: **Shortish chapter, I know. I'll post again in a couple of days. Thanks so much to everyone for your lovely comments!


	7. Chapter 7

A few weeks after confessing his newly coupled status to Wilson, House came home – to Alex's apartment, which he now considered home – in the early evening. He was feeling particularly satisfied with himself, he'd had a difficult case that had been solved just as the patient, a three-year-old girl, had been close enough to knock on Death's door, offer Death a girl scout cookie and take half a step inside. Everyone was happy. Even he was happy, although tired to his bones.

He just hoped that Alex was in a good mood. For the past little while she'd been unpredictable – some days cheerful, other days jumpy, sometimes morose and withdrawn. His questioning – whether carefully concerned or incessant berating – had produced no results as to the reason behind her changeable moods. He figured it was just that the honeymoon period of their relationship had worn off and now they were getting to know the "real" side of each other. So Alex was moody? So was he. It wasn't the end of the world.

"Alex?" He tossed his backpack onto the sofa, and hung his cane from the mantle while he pulled off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. Grabbing his cane again he headed for the kitchen, expecting to find her there. It was where he usually found her when he got home – she loved cooking. House had never thought of himself as an old-fashioned guy, but he had to admit that coming home each night to a woman in the kitchen making him a delicious meal had its definite up-side. Yeah, he might have put on a few pounds, but that was what happiness did, right?

With no sign of her in the kitchen, House proceeded to the bedroom. He wondered if she'd gone out. If she had, he was going to make another attempt to pick the lock on one of the doors down the hall. A few weeks ago he'd discovered that every door in the apartment was locked tight except for the bedroom and bathroom Alex used. When he asked her about it, she simply said they weren't used, so it was a waste to have them open or heated. When he asked again later, Alex had been evasive but had eventually admitted that she didn't have keys for the rooms. She said the owner of the apartment had locked the doors before she'd moved in and she didn't even know what was in there.

Of course, that had been a red rag to a bull for House. Unfortunately the rooms were all on the side of the apartment that faced into the lane down the side of the building rather than the garden, meaning the windows were too high to reach without a ladder. So House had settled for trying to pick the locks. Alex had gone nuts when she'd caught him the first time, so he'd made sure she hadn't caught him again. But it was trying his patience. If he didn't make headway soon, he'd be forced to resort to violence to get his way. How much did a door cost anyway? It couldn't be more than his sanity was worth.

With those thoughts in mind, he was a little disappointed to find Alex in bed, asleep. His snooping would have to wait. He turned to leave her alone, but she seemed to sense his presence and she stirred, shifting on the pillow to look over to the doorway where he stood.

"Hi," she said, smiling sleepily.

"Hi. You okay?"

"Tired."

House frowned. He'd been at the hospital pretty much twenty-four seven for the past couple of days, but he remembered Alex had complained of being tired a few days ago.

"Did you go to work today?"

"No."

He walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Sure you're okay?" He put the back of his hand to her forehead. She definitely had a slight fever and her cheeks had bright pink spots highlighting them.

"I'm just really tired. And a little nauseous."

"You were vomiting last week."

She gave him a weak smile. "I think I have a bug in me."

House felt as if a cold trickle of ice water ran down the back of his neck. He thought back over the past few weeks. Apart from his last patient, he hadn't had any cases that had meant overnight stays in his office for a couple of months. And once Alex was rid of her virginity, she'd been more than eager to make up for lost time. They'd been intimate in one way or another at least every few days. With no breaks for _Not tonight darling, my Aunt Flo is in town_ for at least the last five or six weeks, by his reckoning.

_Why hadn't he noticed before now? _

"Sore breasts?" he asked, stepping through it because pretending it wasn't happening wouldn't make it go away. When she didn't answer he reached out and squeezed.

"Ouch! What did you do that for?"

"I think you have more than a bug in you." House felt a flood of pure terror wash through him like a tsunami. In the wake of it, bizarrely, was a strong sense of stupid masculine pride. _Fifty years old, plus the untold ravages of alcoholism and drug addiction, and my boys can still get the job done. High five! _

She struggled to sit up a little. "What do you mean?"

"You're pregnant."

Her eyes opened, wide as saucers. He could almost see her brain make the connections he just had. Finally she let out a long breath. "_Merde_."

"Indeed."

"I'm going to throw up."

"Go for it." House moved out of the way so she could leap out of bed and he heard her retching in the bathroom. When she returned, the bright spots on her cheeks were an almost comical contrast with the paleness of her face. She crawled back into bed, lifting the comforter back over herself with shaking hands.

"You should go see a doctor tomorrow, get it confirmed."

She nodded, not looking at him.

"Do you want anything to eat? Drink?" he asked.

"_Merci, no_." She shook her head.

He stood up, figuring that they both needed time to process the information before any conversation about it would be fruitful. Not to mention the fact that he could be wrong. It had happened once or twice. But somehow he felt certain about this in a way he couldn't explain.

House ordered a pizza – he hadn't eaten much all day and despite the gut-churning anxiety, he was still hungry. He sat and watched sitcoms and ate pizza and drank whisky and wondered what it all meant.

Despite having come home more tired than he could remember, it was after midnight before he finally turned off the TV and headed for the bedroom. He undressed and crawled under the covers, still mulling over what had occurred to him as he'd sat on the sofa pondering life, the universe and everything. _He actually wouldn't mind being a dad_. So it wasn't planned. So his only role model had sucked pole when it came to parenting. He didn't know how to be a parent, but he certainly knew how _not_ to be one. It was a start.

It took a moment before he realized that Alex was sick. Really sick. The sheets were damp with sweat and her breathing was rapid and uneven. He touched a hand to her face and it was burning hot, her whole face now flushed with fever.

Pregnant _and_ febrile. That couldn't be good.

House threw clothes on while he dialed 911. He tried to rouse Alex several times, but while she responded, she didn't seem fully conscious. She was murmuring, mumbling nonsense words and names that House could make out, but couldn't make sense of.

_Bath. Jack. Paris. Kevin. Daddy._

Something rang a bell in House's mind. _Bath_. That nightmare she'd had the first night they'd spent together. She'd said _bath_ over and over again then, too. _What did it mean?_ Quite possibly nothing. Perhaps she'd had a traumatic experience in the bath as a child – just as he himself had.

The paramedics arrived before he could continue the train of thought and then they were on the way to the hospital. In the ambulance, Alex began crying, sobbing hard.

"Alex? Calm down, sweetheart. We're just taking you to the hospital to get checked out."

"It's probably just the fever – it can make people emotional," the paramedic explained.

House bit his lip to refrain from telling the guy where to stick his advice. He held Alex's hand and kissed her palm.

"Don't leave me," Alex pleaded with him, but her eyes were unfocused.

"I won't leave. I promise."

House was relieved when they finally reached the hospital. In the ER he discovered that Cameron was on duty and wasn't sure whether he was happy or not about that. Cameron was a good doctor, yes. Did he need Cameron right in the middle of his personal drama? About that he wasn't so sure. Although at least he knew he could trust her to keep his private life private. Of course Chase would be told, but otherwise it was more than Cameron's peace of mind was worth to go blabbing about the place.

Alex's temperature was 103.5, not life-threatening, but enough to be concerning. Current wisdom said anything over 102 could be dangerous for a fetus in the first few weeks of pregnancy if it wasn't corrected quickly. He watched with an undeniable sense of pride in his former fellow as Cameron efficiently organized everything: cooling blankets, blood draw, a portable ultrasound. She even snapped at a nurse and a junior doctor who didn't obey her directions quickly enough. He nodded to himself but didn't say anything.

The blood test results would confirm the pregnancy, but House didn't want to wait for that. Cameron had not only worked with him long enough to pick up a newly brisk manner, she understood his need for instant evidence. And his need for privacy. She shooed everyone else from the room and within a few moments, House was looking at a fluttering white blob on the ultrasound – a tiny heartbeat.

"Her temperature's already coming down," Cameron noted. "With some Tylenol and some fluids I'm sure she'll be fine. And if you don't think she's been this bad for more than a few hours I don't think there'll be any consequences for the fetus."

"I know," House snapped, but only because he knew it was expected for him to do so. In reality he was kind of glad to hear Cameron's reassuring prognosis. And pleased that she used the word _fetus._ He might have come to some kind of rationalization about how he'd cope if Alex decided to proceed with the pregnancy, but that didn't mean he was ready to break out the cigars and get all gushy over a _baby._

"I'll admit her overnight for observation and let you know when we get the test results back. But if it's just a dose of the flu, you can take her home in the morning."

-

* * *

-

By early the next morning, Alex was drowsy but doing much better – from a medical point of view if not a personal comfort one. Her temperature had come down to almost normal, but now all the other symptoms of her flu had hit, along with a stinking dose of morning sickness. House felt sorry for her, but his relief that she was okay was acute enough that he had to be extra-specially nasty to everyone, in case someone noticed. Not to mention he was just plain crabby from lack of sleep.

"When can I go home, doctor?" Alex asked him with a weak smile as he walked back into her room.

"Well, _patient_," House said, playing along, "according to my pager, you can go home whenever you want." Cameron had just sent through the final all-clear from the blood tests.

"Now. I want to go home now," Alex said, before sneezing and blowing her nose into a tissue.

"You sure? Staying here means someone else cleans up your spew."

She frowned at him. "Why? Where's—" She broke off, biting her lower lip with her front teeth. Her gaze slipped away from him over to the windows.

"Where's what?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," she muttered. After a pause, her gaze came back to meet his. "I feel . . . kind of . . . confused. Like I'm not awake properly."

"It's probably just the flu. If you still feel like that in a few hours, let me know."

She nodded, but she still looked troubled. House reached out and stroked a lock of hair back from her face before he could stop himself – she looked so miserable, he felt genuinely sorry for her. She flinched away.

Feeling hurt by her rejection of his small gesture, House got all business like. "Who should I call at work to let them know you won't be in?" The question made him remember that there was so much about her he still didn't know. He'd never met a single friend of hers. She'd never met Wilson, either, but House talked about him. She knew he existed. Would know to scroll though his phone and find Wilson's name if an emergency came about.

"Kate," Alex said weakly, staring out the window, not making eye contact.

"Number in your cell phone?"

She nodded.

House went through her purse, rummaging to find her phone. He muttered in frustration at the amount of crap he had to sort through: a notebook held together by a strip of leather, a small make-up purse, at least three pens so far. A tube of chapstick. An iPod. Several pieces of paper with hand-scrawled notes. One of those trashy romance books, looking all frayed and dog-eared, _The Italian Princess's Marriage Bargain._ He tossed it all aside and finally found her phone buried at the bottom under a crumples heap of what he hoped were clean Kleenex.

Alex had closed her eyes, so House took the phone out into the corridor to let her sleep. She'd have to vacate the room soon, he knew, or Cuddy would come looking to find out why a thousand-dollar-a-night bed was being taken by someone with the flu, but there was time for her to have a nap.

He searched through the contacts in Alex's phone – a very short list that thankfully included only one _Kate_.

"Hello? Alex?"

"Uh, hi Kate, you don't know me, but I'm Greg, Greg House, I'm calling from Alex's phone."

"Oh." She paused and then asked in a rush, "Is everything okay? Is Alex okay?"

"She's fine, I just wanted to let you know that she won't be coming to work for a couple of days –she's got the flu."

"Oh, poor thing."

"She said you would be able to tell whoever needs to be told."

"Yeah, I'll take care of it. I don't think it will be a problem."

"Thanks."

Kate paused again. "Do you mind if I ask, who are you?"

House was a little taken aback. He figured Alex would have told the people in her life that she was seeing someone. But then, he had no idea who Kate was to Alex, what kind of relationship they shared. "Uh, I'm her . . ." _Boyfriend?_ That sounded wrong. "We've been seeing each other," he said instead, even though that didn't sound right either. It didn't convey either the depth of feeling they shared - or the fact that he'd knocked her up.

"Oh." Kate sounded vaguely miffed about that. As if hurt that she didn't know. Then her voice changed. "Oh! Are you the motorcycle guy? The doctor?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Oh great, that's great." She sounded so happy.

"Well, yeah, I guess it is."

"Alex told me you guys had met, but I didn't know you were still going out."

"Uh-huh." House didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't exactly want to get into a conversation about all that with a woman he'd never met.

"I'm so thrilled she's out there again. She's been a virtual hermit. And of course I understand that, after everything she went through, but it's time she moved on with her life."

House froze at that, wondering if that meant what he thought it did. "So, you know about what happened with her . . . family?" he asked cautiously, phrasing his question as carefully as possible.

"Yes. I don't know how she's gone on, actually. I mean she's changed, but I guess that's to be expected, isn't it?"

House was taken aback by the grief and sadness in Kate's voice. A little over the top for a runaway bride and a family rift, he thought.

"I just keep hanging in there," Kate continued, "hoping that one day she'll go back to her old self. My friends think I should move on, but I just can't. I hated to think she was all alone – but I'm so happy to hear she has you now."

"Greg?" Alex called out from her room.

"I have to go," he said, a little disappointed. He wished he had more time to talk. Perhaps Kate had some more answers about Alex's past. "Perhaps we should get together some time, the three of us," he suggested.

"That'd be great, if Alex agrees," Kate said tentatively, as if her expectation was that wouldn't happen. "Let Alex know I'll arrange her sick leave. Just tell her to let me know when she thinks she'll be back."

"Okay, bye."

House hung up the phone, the vague unsettled feeling he generally ignored at the fore.

Alex was sitting up in bed. "I want to go home. Can you help me?"

The pleading in her eyes and the helpless expression on her face brought a rush of emotions washing over him, quashing his suspicion instantly. He reached out and took her hand. "Of course."

House had always mocked Wilson for needing to be needed, for falling for women who needed his support and protection. But right at that moment, House could entirely understand the appeal.


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson appeared on Alex's doorstep a couple of evenings later holding a casserole dish and a box of Kleenex.

House opened the door and couldn't quite stop the smile from spreading across his face. "You thought I'd be doing a shitty job and need help, didn't you?"

"I merely thought _Alex_ might appreciate some home cooking," Wilson corrected.

"And that this would be the perfect opportunity to stick your nose into this little bit of my life that I haven't shared with you."

"Precisely." The two men stared at each other with what on the surface looked like aggression, but underneath was a lot more complicated than that.

House's mouth finally cracked into a small smile. "Come in."

House opened the door wider and Wilson stepped in. His eyes widened, taking in the room, but he didn't say anything. Seeing it through Wilson's eyes, though, made House remember how strange he'd found it at first and made him realize that he'd come to ignore the eccentric contrast of apartment and furnishings. Wilson being Wilson, he didn't say anything.

"Alex, Wilson has come to rescue you," House announced. Alex was lying on the sofa with a quilt over her legs. Until the knock on the door, they'd both been lying there, watching a DVD. They'd been sharing a quiet, comforting kind of companionship since her hospital visit. House had been strangely satisfied by his role as care-giver, and Alex had been a model patient – accepting her illness with graceful sufferance. Despite her continuing morning sickness, the topic of her pregnancy had not been raised again and was sitting there like the proverbial elephant in the room. Neither of them seemed willing to break the strange intimacy they'd developed by broaching the subject.

Alex twisted around and sat up.

"No, don't get up, please," Wilson insisted. "I just thought you might like something home cooked. I know my friend here isn't that handy with the pots and pans. By the way, I'm James, James Wilson."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Alex offered. "And thank you for your kindness, but Greg has been doing a wonderful job. He has mastered the art of chicken soup. It is so good I am almost well again."

Alex gave House a smile that he felt deep inside. He couldn't remember the last time someone had defended him. Ever.

"So there, Wilson," House taunted in a childish voice. He was gratified to see his friend get a little flustered.

"I'm glad to hear it," Wilson said eventually. "Well, I hope this casserole is useful anyway."

"Of course it will be delicious! And now you must stay to dinner and eat it with us." Alex turned her smile to Wilson and House was the teensiest bit jealous.

"Oh no, I couldn't intrude," Wilson declined politely.

"Of course you could," House said. "That's why you're here. Park yourself and I'll get you a beer."

With a few muttered words of polite _just for a few moments_, Wilson sat down with every intention, House knew, of staying for the evening.

He returned from the kitchen with a beer and a small bowl of chicken soup. "Here. If you don't believe me."

Wilson gave a twisted smile and accepted the bowl. House stood over him, staring down while Wilson arranged his beer on the table in front of him and dipped the spoon into the soup. After a few sips he looked up, amazed. "This is really good."

"Don't look so surprised," House chastised. Satisfied with Wilson's praise, he moved away and sat down next to Alex.

"I'm sure your meal will be as good," Alex said politely. "Greg has told me that you are an excellent cook."

"It's just beef bourguignon, nothing special," Wilson lied. "How's your flu Alex?"

"I'm much better, thank you."

"You must be regretting the day you met House."

"Why is that?"

Despite the fact that he knew Wilson was joking, House was pleased to see that Alex looked slightly annoyed by Wilson's question.

"First he runs you over with his motorbike and now you're going to cop whatever germs he brings home from the clinic."

"Ah," Alex finally caught on to the joke and relaxed. "You're right. He might be dangerous to my health."

"Hey, don't blame me," House protested. "You're the one who stepped out into moving traffic."

"I did no such thing," Alex said, giving him a sly grin. It was an old argument, each taking fun in blaming the other for the accident. They'd had it many times. "It was your careless driving."

"Jaywalker."

"Hooligan."

"Pedestrian," House spat, as if the word were somehow an insult.

Alex simply smiled back.

"Uh, boys and girls, break it up," Wilson said. "I'm not sure whether to get a bucket of cold water or tell you to get a room."

House laughed, but took pity on his friend and decided to change the subject. He had only been in the hospital for a couple of hours each day since Alex had fallen ill, so he asked Wilson for an update. They talked about a few pieces of hospital business and covered off the fact that his team had simply been wrapping everything up after their last patient's case. The little girl was still doing exceptionally well and expected to be discharged in a day or two.

After that there was a moment of silence. Usually it would have been easy silence – he and Wilson were old enough friends that sitting without speaking was entirely comfortable. And he and Alex often sat quietly together. But with the three of them in the room – plus the elephant – there was something unsettling about the pause.

Alex broke it first. She shuffled out from under the blanket and sat up properly, revealing her pale feet and red-painted toenails. "So James, has Greg told you our news?"

House felt the floor fall out from beneath him.

"What's that?" Wilson asked pleasantly.

"We're having a baby."

_Well there was the answer to that question_, House figured. He struggled to draw breath and look normal as Wilson's astonished gaze darted between him and Alex.

"Don't look so surprised," House said, repeating his comment from earlier. Although _surprise_ was the right word for unexpectedly good chicken soup. Probably the word more appropriate news of this nature was _stunned_.

"I am surprised," Wilson said. "But, uh, congratulations, I guess."

"You guess?" House raised one eyebrow. Despite the fact that he was still rattled by Alex's shock announcement, he was irritated that his friend wasn't instantly happy for them. Clearly he doubted House's ability to be a father.

"I mean, congratulations, of course," Wilson stumbled. "It's just unexpected that's all. I'm really happy for you both."

"Thank you," Alex said, graciously. "You're right of course, it is a surprise. It's taken us both a little time to get used to it."

House realized she was right. So they hadn't had any kind of deep and meaningful conversation about it. But he would have hated every moment of it if they had. This was better – after all, it wasn't like they were teenagers. They were grownups. They had enough money to support a child. Besides, even though it had taken the two of them to create the situation, as far as House was concerned the final decision was Alex's. And she'd decided – this was her way of letting him know.

"When? I mean, how long?" Wilson asked.

"She's around eight weeks," House replied.

"And so where will you live?" Wilson asked, peering around the strange apartment. "Are you planning to get married? What will—"

"That's enough Wilson!" House snapped. He ignored the fact that the reason Wilson's questions so annoyed him was that they went to the heart of his own anxiety. There was so much to decide – so much that would have to _change_. "Give us a minute to work though one thing at a time, okay?" he said more reasonably.

"Yeah, sure, sorry."

Alex's hand sought his; she grasped it and gave it a tight squeeze. House glanced over at her and she gave him a small smile. He knew she was telling him his assumption had been right – announcing things like that had been the easiest way to make the decision. And her eyes sought his approval. He gave her a smile and squeezed her hand back.

"Shall we eat?" she said quietly. "I think I can find my appetite tonight."

House nodded and rose, heading to the kitchen. "Absolutely. Wilson, how do we heat up this gourmet repast of yours?"

Later, after Wilson had left, House helped Alex to bed, even though she was more than capable of doing it by herself. As he sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling the comforter over her, Alex reached down and grabbed his hand. She brought it to her mouth and kissed his fingers.

"_Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien_," she recited. "_Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme_."

"I love it when you speak French, Tish." House reversed the hold she had on his hand and brought her wrist to his mouth, kissing her arm extravagantly, Gomez-Adams-style.

"You do?" Alex teased.

"Oh, yes" he said between kisses. "French has so many wonderful words in it." _Mwah._ "Like _derrière." Mwah. "_And _ménage_ à _trios_." _Mwah._ "And—"

"What I love about you is your intellect," Alex interrupted drily.

House smiled and raised his head slightly from her inner elbow. "I got it. Rimbaud, right?"

She nodded. "_I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing: But endless love will mount in my soul,_" she translated.

"I love you too," he said, lowering her arm so he could lean in to kiss her lips, meaning the words with every fiber of his being.

-

* * *

-

Alex was grateful that her morning sickness only outlasted her flu by a week or so. The tiredness – a life-sapping exhaustion that made even a trip to the bathroom feel like an Everest expedition – lasted a little longer, but thankfully it too receded eventually.

There had been no more sightings of the man in the green coat, but Alex had been far more vigilant of her surroundings since then. She wondered if her pregnancy hormones, even that early on, had been partly responsible: a protective instinct that she wasn't even conscious of.

As time went on without further sightings she tried to relax. She knew that Greg had picked up on some of her anxiety, but she figured he would put it down to the pregnancy. In fact, the pregnancy wasn't troubling her at all. Once the tiredness and morning sickness were over she felt great. Healthy, strong and looking forward to growing round and full with their child.

In fact, that was already well on the way. Early in her third month, Alex had begun showing. Although it was still so early, she'd had to go and buy maternity jeans and a couple of outfits for work – if she'd wanted to hide her condition for any length of time, she wouldn't have been able to. This baby wanted to declare its presence to the world as soon as it possibly could.

People at work had said congratulations and then avoided her as they usually did. Kate had been as astonished as Greg's friend James had been, but eventually she'd accepted the news and said she was happy for them both. She'd even bought Alex a little gift – a little white stuffed puppy, for the baby. Alex had put it away in a cupboard as soon as she'd got home, not entirely sure why, but feeling an inexplicable sense of superstition about it. Even though by then she had passed the risk period of the pregnancy, she still didn't want to buy supplies or begin organizing anything. Greg had been getting annoyed with her over it. They'd had a few fights over small things but Alex knew the real reason behind it was the much bigger issues they were both ignoring.

He wanted clarity about things: where they were going to live, how much leave she would take when the baby was born, whether or not they needed to formalize their relationship. But interestingly, although he wanted decisions made, he didn't seem prepared to make any of them himself. If he'd gone out and bought them a house, or an engagement ring, or just packed up her things and moved them to his apartment, Alex would have followed without a murmur. But he hadn't, so they'd gone on living with her second-hand furniture and half-locked up house, and Alex did her best to pretend everything would somehow work itself out.

The one big thing they'd fought over was contact with her family. He'd insisted that now she was pregnant, her family would be forced to relinquish any ideas they had for marrying her off. He'd stopped short of asking her to marry him, but the intimation was there. Alex knew if she dropped any hints, he would. For someone who seemed so dismissive of society and its norms, her lover was surprisingly traditional.

-

* * *

-

The summer was hot and by the time she was into her sixth month of pregnancy Alex was finding the bus ride to and from work interminable. Especially given that the polite tradition of giving up a seat to a pregnant woman seemed to be optional these days. Greg had loaned her his car, a beaten up old thing, but better than the bus by a country mile. He'd offered it to her many times, especially given in the summer he preferred his motorbike, but for the first time she accepted it. Not only was it more comfortable, it gave her the flexibility to run errands during the day and to leave early on the days she could and go home and put her feet up.

It was on just such a day that she first saw the white car. It followed her into the parking lot at the university as she arrived in the morning and parked a couple of rows away. Alex noted it, because she was taking care to note all such things these days, and so she was on alert when she left – early – that same afternoon and the white car followed.

Driving along, Alex tried hard to keep her breathing regular and her heart rate down for the sake of the baby. But an overwhelming terror had begun to take hold of her as she turned, and turned, and the white car stayed stuck in her rear vision mirror.

_What to do? _

She didn't want to drive home, because she'd be showing them exactly where she lived – if they didn't already know. She didn't want to go to a grocery store or a mall, because they could easily kidnap her from a public place like that.

Alex could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. She fought to keep her panic under control.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her and she took the next left, heading straight towards Princeton Plainsboro Hospital. There was plenty of security at the hospital, she knew, and it would be confusing to her followers. They might not know Greg worked there – they might assume she had a medical appointment. Whatever – she simply couldn't think of anything else. She could feel the baby doing somersaults inside her and she rubbed her stomach, sending apologies to her little one for putting him or her through this. In an effort to staunch her terror she refused to look behind her, knowing that each time she caught a glimpse of the white car her blood pressure stepped up a notch.

She parked the car as close to the entrance as she could and, without looking, climbed out and ran into the foyer. Inside, breathing hard, she finally allowed herself to turn around. There was no one behind her, and no white cars in the immediate vicinity. She bent over, her hands on her knees, and forced herself to take a deep breath in and out.

"Are you okay?" A passing nurse put a hand on her elbow and peered at her with concern.

Alex did her best to arrange her face into a neutral expression. "I'm fine. It is just the heat – it takes it out of me."

The nurse nodded understandingly. "Of course. Can I get you some water?"

Alex shook her head. "Thanks, but I am fine. I will get some later."

She made her way over to the elevators and checked the signs to find the diagnostic department. She'd never actually been to Greg's office before and she wondered how he would react to her appearance. Of course she could have just gone and sat in the cafeteria or something, but she was desperate to see him, to be comforted by him.

Walking down the corridor out of the elevators, she saw a door on her left: _James Wilson, M.D._. And then, right next door, there he was. Greg was in a large room, sitting around a conference table with four other people. She could guess who they all were from his descriptions: Foreman was wearing the suit, Taub was the short one, Kutner the one smiling, the mysteriously named Thirteen far too beautiful for Alex's liking. Suddenly she felt fat and sweaty and unattractive.

She was about to turn around and leave, but it was too late, Taub had noticed her hanging around the door. He gave her a smile as if he recognized her, but then Alex figured it probably wasn't too hard to put together. Gathering up her strength she knocked on the door politely and opened it a crack. "Greg?"

"Alex?" He wasn't facing the door and he twisted around, clearly surprised to find her standing there. And, Alex thought, it wasn't a pleasant one. "Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Yes, I just . . ." She trailed off. She wanted to tell him what had happened, but not in front of all these people. "I just wanted to talk to you. If you have a moment?"

His eyes clouded over. He was clearly not pleased. "Wait in my office." He gestured with his chin to the room next door. "I'll be in when we're done here." Without waiting for her reply he turned his back to her and took up the conversation they'd clearly been having before she'd interrupted. She'd been well and truly dismissed.

As Alex closed the door and walked around to the next room, the adrenaline that had been fueling her turned sour inside her veins. She felt ready to cry; a solid lump in her throat, her eyes burning hot.

She stood, arms hanging aimlessly by her side, and just stared around her. This was the space he spent so much time in, she thought. And yes, it was just like him. Books, toys, gadgets. So many things to keep a ridiculously intelligent brain amused and distracted. And yet he spent almost every night in her sparse, boring apartment. It had nothing to entertain or engage him except for a television and herself. She wasn't sure whether to be comforted or worried by that.

A few minutes later the people around the table all rose as one, and all but Greg left through the door – each giving her a blatantly curious glance through the glass wall as they did. Then Greg pushed open the adjoining wall and gave her an annoyed look. "What are you doing here?"

To her horror, Alex burst into tears.

In a few strides he was by her side, cane clattering to the floor as his hands went to her cheeks, forcing her head up to meet his gaze. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she managed to say between sobs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come." She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to pull herself together. "I just felt . . . scared all of a sudden. And I wanted to see you."

His expression softened and he gave her a small smile. "Scared of what?"

Alex hesitated. She knew he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand that there was nothing he could do. And all that would happen would be that they would fight again over the fact that she should call her family and make it all come to an end. He had this fairytale idea that if she called and explained, everything would be fine and all would be forgotten. She knew her family and she knew Frederick and she knew things didn't work like that.

"Just scared," she said weakly, sniffing.

"Scared of the birth?"

"_Oui_." _That wasn't it, but it would do._

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her head against his chest. Alex sighed and threaded her arms around his waist. This was what she'd come for.

"I'm getting scared too," he said his tone light. "Scared of diaper changes. Cuddy was telling me about something called explosive poops." He shuddered. "It sounds revolting."

She managed a strangled laugh. She sniffed and pulled away, searching in her purse for a Kleenex. "I'm fine now, thanks. I just needed a hug."

He nodded and then gave her a lopsided smile. "Any time. Except . . ." He gestured towards the conference room. "My patient is bleeding from the eyeballs. I should probably go do something about that. You'll be right? I'll probably be home late."

Alex nodded her head and then blew her nose. The contrasts of this man were enough to send anyone around the bend. He'd gone from annoyed to concerned to loving to medical professional in the space of thirty seconds. She guessed it was one of the reasons she loved him so much.

"I'll be fine. I'll see you when you get home."

-

* * *

"_Sensation_" by Arthur Rimbaud, 1870

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay posting, the site has been playing up. Thank you all for your lovely comments!


	9. Chapter 9

The next time she saw the white car, a couple of days later, Alex managed to stay calmer. Then, after a few days it became clear that the car was trailing her every day. It would pick her up somewhere along the way to work and again follow her on the way home. It didn't seem to matter which route she went, which short-cuts or long-way-rounds she did, there was always a white car somewhere around.

Alex knew her time was running out.

Greg had barely been home, his patient with the bleeding eyeballs continued to decline for reasons he couldn't fathom.

Home, alone, Alex fretted and worried. She checked the locks on the doors and windows three or four times a night. She got up at midnight and paced, wracking her brain for a solution. How could she escape and yet keep the life she'd built with Greg? She wanted to live like a normal person, to have their baby, to share their lives, but through the cruel fate of being born in the wrong place, to the wrong people, she wasn't allowed that.

The first night Greg came home, she tried to talk to him about it. He was tired and distracted – the patient still hadn't improved. She knew she should have waited, but in retrospect she was glad she hadn't.

"Greg I need to talk to you about something," she said, putting a plate of _coq au vin_ in front of him. He began eating without pause, without even saying thank you. She knew that he often didn't eat when he was working on a case and came home starving, but it was unlike him not to at least thank her for the meal.

"I think I'm being followed." _There, she'd said it._

"Fo'wed?" he said through a mouthful. He swallowed and then washed it down with a mouthful of wine. "What do you mean?"

"There's a white car that follows me to work each day and home again. It's my family – they've found me."

"How do you know?" he said, narrowing his eyes.

"I know."

"So are you sure it's the same car? What kind is it?"

"A Toyota Camry."

He blew out a breath in annoyance. "One of the most common car makes in the US," he said, shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth. "Hab you ecked the licen lates?" he asked around the food.

"It's too hard to see when I'm in traffic." She sat down at the table opposite him.

He swallowed. "Have they tried to contact you? Have you seen who's driving – do you recognize them?"

"No, I don't recognize them and there's been no contact."

"So effectively what you're telling me is that you've seen the most common car in the Unites States on the road at the same time as you each day."

She started to get annoyed with his flippancy. "It's more than that."

"How?"

"They follow me."

He frowned and put his fork down for a moment. "So when you pull out of the parking space here in the morning, a white car does too? And it follows you all the way to the university parking lot? And vice versa on the way home?"

"No, of course not. That would give them away. They start following me at different points."

He rolled his eyes. "I think you're overreacting."

Alex started to feel a cold chill as he continued to pour water on her theory. "I think I have every right to be concerned," she said defensively.

"Why would they do that?"

"You know why!"

"No, I mean, why would they just follow you? How long as this been happening?"

"At least the last four days."

"So for four days, they've followed you from home to work and back again. Clearly they can see that you're pregnant. They know where you live. Where you work. Why haven't they spoken to you? What are they waiting for?"

"I don't know!" Alex said, banging the table with frustration. "But we have to do something about it!"

"What?"

"Call the police."

"And tell them that you've seen a white Camry?" he scoffed. "Besides, if you thought the police could protect you, why haven't you called them before now?"

He was right, Alex knew. The police couldn't help. "So what do we do?" she asked helplessly.

He sighed, and she knew he was annoyed with her. "Wait. See if you see this car again. Try to get the license plates. See if you can get a description of the driver. Then we'll work out what to do from there. Of course you could also do what I suggested months ago and call your family and tell them what's going on."

She knew he'd bring that up again. But tonight she didn't have the energy for the fight. "Okay," she said reluctantly. "I'll be more vigilant. I'll see if I can get the license plates."

"Good. And I think it's time—" He broke off and looked down at his plate.

"What?"

"Alex?" He gave her a pained look. When he spoke again his voice was quieter, more careful. "Alex, I think you need to consider the possibility that your family hasn't come to find you because they don't _want_ to find you. You disappeared and you've been gone for more than two years. It would only have taken a mildly talented private investigator to find you. Perhaps they're _not_ coming."

Alex considered his theory and rejected it immediately. He didn't know Frederick. He didn't know her father. She understood their tenacity and their vindictiveness. She couldn't explain why they hadn't come before now, but she was absolutely certain that they had.

Why her lover, baby's father and only friend was trying to convince her otherwise was another question. If she accepted what he had to say, then she'd relax her guard, make it easy for them to get to her. What if that was what he'd planned all along? Could he be a part of it all? Could all this – his love, their relationship – be a massive charade? Could she really have fallen for it?

She found it hard to accept that she could be betrayed so totally like that, but if life should have taught her anything, it was that she should have learned by now that she couldn't trust _anyone_.

"I guess it's a possibility," she said quietly, playing along. For now she'd keep her suspicions to herself. If he _was_ working for Frederick, it would only be to her advantage if he thought she believed him.

-

* * *

-

When House went back to work early the next morning, he was instantly tied up with his patient. For the few hours that he'd gone home to eat and sleep, the man's condition hadn't improved, but it hadn't deteriorated either. He'd held a stressed and short-tempered DDX session before deciding on a new course of treatment. Once the team had left, House made time for one personal phone call before hitting the books again.

_It was necessary. No matter what Wilson said. It was no longer a matter of proving he trusted her. _

House was sick of the mystery – he wanted it solved and he wanted it solved now. It had been fun playing along, learning about European aristocracy, but the fun had dried up in the face of Alex's paranoia. It was time to get serious.

"Lucas?"

"Hey, House." Lucas sounded his usual any-more-relaxed-and-he'd-be-in-a-coma self.

"Need you to do something for me."

"You betcha."

"Background check. Alexandra George."

Lucas paused. "Your girlfriend? Your pregnant girlfriend?"

"How do you know that?"

"Give me some credit, man."

House sighed. "Yes, my pregnant girlfriend."

"Cool."

House wondered if anything would ever fluster the guy.

"What you want to know?"

"I want to know about her family. You might need some contacts in Europe – that going to be a problem?"

"Nope. Just expect the international phone calls on your bill."

House quickly outlined the history of events Alex had given him and mentioned that she'd seen someone following her. House was more or less convinced she was imagining it, but that didn't stop him being concerned for her and their unborn child. In fact, he was becoming more concerned that the whole thing was another excuse to stop Alex from making the very real decisions that needed to be made about their future. But. He couldn't afford the arrogance of believing he was right, only to have her harmed or kidnapped from him just because he'd refused to believe her.

"So you want me to follow her?" Lucas asked.

"Not exactly – I want you to follow the people that are following her. If there are any," he added.

"And find out more about her father and this Frederick guy."

"Yes."

"Cool."

"When will you have something?" House asked, impatient as always.

"I'll call you." Lucas hung up.

House sat for a moment, staring at the phone. He wondered what would happen next. He was pleased that Alex had seemed to take his suggestion so well the night before. Because he was pretty sure that was it – she'd run away from her family, only to be abandoned by them. If he could find proof, present her with evidence – like Frederick having married someone else – maybe they could both move on. Do something about their living arrangements. Perhaps even get engaged. Start actually looking forward to the future and their baby instead of living in fear of the past.

House wanted to be a father now – he was looking forward to it. He wanted to go buy a crib and hire a decorator to create a nursery. He was sure Alex loved their baby and was looking forward to it too, but she just didn't seem to be able to make any decisions about the future. He didn't want to press, but something had to change and soon. In just a few months, the baby would be here and House didn't want to take his son or daughter home to a cardboard box in the corner of a half-furnished apartment.

He just hoped Lucas found something – fast.

-

* * *

-

Alex spent the rest of the week following Greg's advice. She tried to check for license plates, but it was difficult when she was driving. So far she was pretty sure it had a K and perhaps a 4, but that was as much as she had gathered. She knew it wasn't enough.

And then, one day, she was leaving home for work when she glanced in her rear vision mirror. Greg had left about fifteen minutes earlier, giving her a quick kiss and a rub on her swollen tummy on the way out as he usually did. But she could see him now, on the street. He was leaning against a car, talking to the man sitting inside it. She'd never seen the other man before, but Greg was talking to him as if they knew each other well.

Alex felt her stomach dip and a wave of nausea sweep over her as she watched.

A couple of other cars pulled in behind her as she waited at the stop light, but she could still see them from her side mirror as they talked. Greg was gesturing with his hands and the other man laughed.

Then the driver pointed and they both turned to look at her car. She figured they didn't think she could see them with the cars that had pulled up between them, because they didn't instantly try to hide themselves. But Greg quickly moved away from the car and the driver pulled out, smoothly slotting into the traffic behind her.

Although the scene had left her shaking and sick, in a strange way it felt like everything suddenly clicked into place. Now instead of living with the uncertainty of betrayal, she knew it for sure. It didn't make it any more pleasant, but at least she knew where she stood: Greg had deceived her. He was working with Frederick.

Alex knew what she had to do. She had to run, get herself and the baby away, far from Frederick's grasp. She could go to Mexico maybe, catch a bus and head south. The money she'd hidden would get her far enough away and buy her somewhere to stay for long enough if she was frugal. Perhaps she could try to contact her mother – see if she could get more money for when the baby arrived.

She pulled into the parking lot at work, not paying any attention to the cars that followed her. Her head was full of the plans she needed to make and the escape she had to effect. And the loose ends she had to tie up before she did.

-

* * *

**A/N: **I started writing this story weeks ago, well before Lucas popped up again on our screens! This story is set in Season 5, when Lucas was still an amusing, temporary side character, not laden by ship wars as he is now... :)


	10. Chapter 10

House had just returned to his office after a late lunch with Wilson when Lucas called. He still wondered if Alex had seen him talking to Lucas on her way to work that morning, but she hadn't called or come to see him, so he figured she must be doing okay. Besides, as Lucas had reminded him, there was nothing all that suspicious about standing in the street talking to a friend. There was no way Alex could know Lucas was a PI, or that House had hired him to look into her background.

And, House thought with a wry internal chuckle, Lucas's car wasn't a white Camry.

"Hey man." Lucas didn't sound his usual perky self.

A sense of foreboding settled over House, making him sit down heavily into his chair. _Answers were better than no answers_, he reminded himself. _No matter what they might be_. "Lucas. What you got for me?" There was silence. A silence that made House's existing anxiety ramp up a notch. "What? What is it?"

"This is some heavy shit."

"She actually _is_ being followed?" House felt the guilt, pointy and full of prickles, bounce around in his gut. He hadn't believed her. Not really.

"No, no," Lucas quickly corrected, "you don't understand."

"No, I don't, because you are being an asshole and not telling me. Spill it."

"I . . . I'm coming in. I'll leave the file for you to look at."

House growled in frustration. "I've been waiting long enough. Just tell me. This woman is having my child. I have a right to know what's going on."

Lucas made a noncommittal noise that House couldn't quite interpret. Then, finally, he sighed. "I'll give you something to get you started. Have you got Google open?"

House twisted his chair to face his PC and made a few quick keystrokes. "I do now."

"Type in Alexandra Marquez," Lucas spelt out the name, "and Kevin Blake."

"Done."

"Read the Newsweek article. Bye."

Lucas ended the call with a click in House's ear. But he hardly heard it as he watched the search results appear. Thousands of them. House clicked on the first few, but after reading three or four stories his stomach began to twist and he wondered if he might throw up.

He followed Lucas's advice and opened the Newsweek article. It was an in-depth investigative piece, a few thousand words long. House swallowed down his nausea and read it thoroughly, right through to the very, _very_ bitter end.

_Everybody lies._

For lack of any other reaction, House laughed. Wilson chose that moment to walk into his office.

"So I was thinking we could grab a pizza tonight – that is if you and Alex don't have other plans. What's funny?"

"Fuck." House actually couldn't think of anything else to say. He clicked on another link from his Google search and watched as a video news bulletin began to appear, pausing it until the red bar was fully loaded.

Everything was so totally, monumentally fucked up, he didn't know where to begin.

"What?" Wilson clearly picked up the tone in House's voice and was immediately concerned, walking all the way up to House's desk.

House wondered where to begin. "You know I mentioned that Alex had a messy family situation?"

Wilson screwed up his nose. "Yeah, I think so."

"Well it's even more fucked than I thought. Fuck," he repeated for good measure.

"Why? What happened?"

"I got Lucas to investigate."

"House!" Wilson sat down heavily in the chair opposite the desk. "I thought we agreed that—"

"Wait!" He held up a hand. "Before you go getting high and mighty, let me tell you what he found." House took a deep breath before he began to recite the details of the tangled story he'd just learned. "Alex is the daughter of Marciano Marquez."

"Why does that name ring a bell?"

"One of the richest men in South America."

Wilson let out a low whistle. "Way to pick them, House."

House ignored the jab. Wilson would be sorry for it in less than a minute, he knew. "Her mother was French, but Marciano divorced her when Alex was thirteen. Alex and her mother went to live in Paris and then, about ten years ago they came to live in the States – on Rhode Island. A few years later Alex went to Boston and did her masters' degree and since then has been lecturing and working on her thesis." The article had mentioned that it was on _Rimbaud_ – at least one thing was consistent, House thought.

"So, she lied about being from Europe?" Wilson was clearly puzzled as to why House seemed so upset.

House snorted. "That's not it." House shook his head. "That's not nearly it."

"Well, tell me."

House sucked in a deep breath. "Six years ago Alex got married. To Kevin Blake, a psychology professor she'd met in Boston. About three years ago they had a child – a son, Jack, and four months after that, they both transferred to Princeton."

"_What?_"

House turned back to the PC screen. "And then, well, watch this." He clicked on the screen, and a news item from _60 Minutes_ began to play.

"_The billionaire heiress with the world at her feet,_" the voiceover began. "_Alexandra Marquez had it all_." Images of Alex filled the screen, the first one a picture of her sitting on a yacht in a yellow bikini, clearly taken from a long distance. It was followed by photos of her in evening gowns, at fashion parades, and a couple of casual shots of her walking with a beautiful older woman House now knew was her mother. Then came a few shots of Alex holding her baby, Jack, clearly taken by a professional photographer.

"_Her parents' divorce was amicable, but Alex and her mother moved to Paris, spending time in London for schooling, jet-setting all over the world as the mood took them_," the voiceover said as the image montage continued. "_She and her mother eventually settled in the United States where Alex could carry on her academic career. In Boston she met and married her husband, psychology professor, Kevin Blake. They had a son, Jack, and moved to Princeton where they both continued to work and look after their little boy. Anna Marquez was a doting grandmother, her grandson Jack the centre of her world._

"_If you think it sounds like a fairytale, you'd be right_," the presenter said, now speaking to camera as he walked around the grounds of Princeton. "_And just like all fairy tales, this one has a twist. But unlike most fairytales, there is no happy ending._"

The shot changed to one of the apartment building House was currently living in. "_Alex Blake's life was totally destroyed within a week_," the voiceover continued.

"_Her father, Marciano Marquez's business interests are wide-ranging and, it is alleged, run on both sides of the law. There have been accusations of everything from arms dealings to guerilla forces in Central America through to cocaine smuggling in Columbia. Nothing ever proven, but there is no doubt that Marquez has powerful enemies_." The reporter went into a little more detail about the businessman's dealings and there were photos of alleged terrorists, drug busts, and the like.

House ignored Wilson's indrawn breath, determined to keep watching despite the churning in his stomach.

"House, stop. Stop it." Wilson came around the desk and grabbed the mouse from House's hand, clicking until the video came to a halt. He sat heavily on the edge of the desk. "What is this all about?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?" House asked, his voice deceptively casual. Underneath, he was seething with so many emotions he couldn't begin to name them.

"Just tell me. I don't want to watch."

House shrugged. "When the baby – Jack – was about six months old, Alex's mother went to Paris to visit friends. While she was there she was kidnapped. A ransom demand was made, but Alex's father refused to pay. Nothing was ever proved, but the police believed it was to do with her ex-husband's not-so-legitimate business dealings in South America. Apparently kidnapping is a somewhat routine negotiation tactic down there and Marciano's new family was well protected by bodyguards, but he didn't think to protect his ex-wife or grown-up daughter."

"Oh my God. Wha—" Clearly Wilson didn't know which part of the story to focus on first. "Is she okay?" he asked eventually.

"No. Very _not okay_. She was tortured, raped, and murdered. Alex had to go fly to Paris to identify the body and bring her back for a funeral."

"Geez." Wilson took in a deep breath. "Obviously Alex is okay, but what about the husband? The baby?"

This was the part that House was still swallowing down bile after reading. "When she got back from Paris she came home to find intruders in her apartment. The same kidnappers most likely, trying to get at Marquez a different way – but again it was never proved, no one ever charged."

"No." Wilson's voice was almost inaudible, but it echoed the very same thought in House's head. As much as he didn't want to learn that Alex had had a husband, a baby, he didn't want to read this about them either.

House nodded. "Yes. When the ransom wasn't paid _again_, they killed Kevin and the baby – while Alex watched. They either decided to leave Alex alive because they figured she might be useful to try the stunt again sometime down the track, or they didn't have time to kill her before the police arrived."

Wilson screwed up his face. "You know, now that you say that I remember something like that in the news a couple of years ago . . ."

His hands were shaking, House realized, and he gripped the desk to stop them.

Now for the icing on the cake. "It all happened in her apartment. The one I've been living in for the past eight months. We've been sleeping in the baby's room." He pictured the little yellow ducks with their umbrellas and red galoshes – he'd noticed them on his first night in the room, thought it strange, and then never paid attention to it again.

He could see so many things in hindsight – so many little things that added up.

The expensive apartment and shabby furnishings – clearly she'd thrown out everything from when it had happened and had replaced it with temporary furnishings, locking off the doors to the rooms that reminded her of what she'd lost.

The locked doors – House shuddered now to think what might be behind them.

Right back to that first time they'd had sex – he cringed at how he'd played in to her virginity fantasy. Even then, something had piqued his curiosity, but he'd forgotten it. He remembered what it was now: he'd noticed a couple of faded stretch marks on her stomach. They could have been from weight gain, of course, but it was more likely they were caused by pregnancy. His brain had been trying to alert him all along – he'd been suspicious about her story, skeptical about her paranoia, angered by her reluctance to reveal more about her past. But, like an idiot, he'd been _in love_. And ignoring every rational instinct seemed to be a side-effect of that state of being.

In an instant, the swirl of emotions coalesced into one solid mass of anger. She'd played him like a fool – she'd invented some stupid, twisted fantasy and he'd swallowed it hook line and sinker. His medical, rational side reminded him that Alex had experienced horrendous trauma and her life of fantasy might have been more self-protection than a plot to ensnare him, but right at that moment, his vision was red with rage and he could barely see straight.

"And you wanted me to trust her," he spat at Wilson, as if the entire thing was his fault. House knew it was unreasonable, but he was the only handy target. Without paying any attention to Wilson's reasoned explanations, House picked up the phone and dialed Alex's cell. "Alex, I'm coming home. You'd better be there when I get there. I know the truth. I know the lies you told me. We have to _talk_." He threw the phone down. _Talk_. That was if he could stop himself from strangling her.

"House, calm down."

House rubbed his face with his hands. "Don't tell me to calm down! I've just found out that everything I believed for the past ten months has been a lie. She's having my baby, for Christ's sake. No wonder she started showing so early – it's her second pregnancy. And I_ believed_ her. I believed everything she told me." He was disgusted with himself. No one had ever played Gregory House for a bigger fool.

"House, I think there are bigger things to think about here. Like the fact that Alex is clearly—"

"In big trouble? Yeah, you're right there."

"I was going to say _mentally ill_."

"No, that's not possible. She's perfectly functional."

"You know that delusional people can be high functioning, apart from their delusion. She's possibly got PTSD as well, and—"

House didn't want to hear Wilson's explanation, even as it penetrated a part of his brain that said, _yes, that makes perfect sense._ His own personal sense of betrayal was too sharp to be sidetracked.

House stood up and grabbed his backpack, stuffing his belongings into it. All he could think was that he needed to see Alex, to confront her with what he discovered. He realized that somewhere, deep inside, he was hoping that there'd be some perfectly logical explanation for all this. That Alex would say something that would make it all go away and that everything would be okay again.

But as he stormed out of the hospital and revved up his bike, he knew it never would be.


	11. Chapter 11

At the apartment, House threw open the door so hard it bounced on its hinges and almost flew back to hit him in the face. He made a quick search, confirming Alex wasn't home. Strangely her purse was sitting on the sofa and House sat down to go through it. He upended it, spilling all the contents out over the coffee table. The small change purse where she kept her money and credit cards was gone, along with her keys. But her cell phone – showing one message waiting for her – was still there.

She'd probably gone to the grocery store.

Something inside him snapped and he jumped up and headed down the corridor, stopping at the first locked door that he came to. He took a few steps back and then ran limpingly at it with all his strength, knocking into it with his shoulder and arm. Nothing happened to the door, but House bounced off it in pain.

_It always worked in the movies. _

He swore viciously at the stubborn piece of wood and at his own inability to break it.

House decided to take a different tack. Balancing his weight carefully on his damaged right leg, holding on to the wall for good measure, he kicked at the door with his left and was rewarded by the sound of splintering timber. He kicked again and again, realizing that even if it didn't get the door open, it felt good to be taking his anger out on something.

Eventually the doorknob fell off and then, another kick later, the lock gave way and the door flung open.

House had to take a moment to catch his breath and make sure that both legs could hold him. His right was aching from balancing his weight; his left trembled from the exertion of kicking. When he finally felt able to stand, he staggered the few steps into the room.

It was dark, the curtains pulled closed but for a sliver down the middle that let in enough sunshine to make out the details. Dust danced in the shard of light, disturbed for the first time in almost two years, House figured. He took a deep breath. It was the master bedroom, the kind of room he'd expected to find in an apartment of this size. And it was completely furnished, the bed neatly made, looking for all the world as if someone had just stepped out of it a moment ago.

The large, four-poster bed dominated the room. Off to one side, near a fireplace, sat a soft-green sofa scattered with plump throw pillows. A door on the opposite side of the room appeared to lead into an en suite bathroom. Next to the bed stood a white-painted crib, change table and other items of baby furniture – it looked as if it had been moved there in haste because it was all jumbled in together, and it was a tight fit between the bed and wall. If they'd had a crib in the room, there were plenty of other, more practical places to put it.

A dresser sat just inside the door, to House's right. He turned to look at it and picked up a silver frame from on top. It showed a beautiful older woman – Alex's mother, he knew from watching the news report. They looked similar, although in contrast to Alex's rich brown eyes, her mother's eyes were bright blue, like his. He picked up the next frame and winced at the picture. A man, a woman, a baby. They were in a park, sitting on the grass. The baby was being held by the man, the woman – Alex – looked at them both with a loving smile.

House felt sick thinking about Alex and her perfect little family. Living in their perfect little apartment. A beautiful bedroom where she and Kevin made love – he tried not to picture it but his brain betrayed him; the image of Alex lying naked in the bed, her luscious hair spread across the pillows as a man – not him – leaned over to kiss her. The baby would have slept safely in the room opposite theirs, protected by its wallpapered smiling-in-the-face-of-bad-weather ducks.

All of it destroyed in the most cruel and terrifying way possible.

House felt like he couldn't breathe – the dust was choking him – and he turned from the room, heading back out into the living room where he collapsed on the sofa.

His anger began to wane, replaced by a sick fog of bewilderment.

_What the hell did he do now?_

He looked at the pile of crap from Alex's purse and reached out to pick up the romance novel that had fallen out. He managed a grim, mocking smile – as much as he loved _Prescription Passion_, he didn't get her fondness for these books. For lack of anything else to do, House opened the book and began to read.

_Princess Alexandra Maria Feliciana Di Giorgio looked around the humble abode that  
was to be her home. It was a far cry from the suite of rooms she enjoyed at the  
palace. But if it meant escaping Frederick's clutches and not giving in to her  
father's plans for her life, it was worth it. _

_She sat down on the lumpy sofa and sighed hard, exhausted by the past few weeks  
of activity. Losing her grandmother had been devastating, even after her long battle  
with cancer. But her father's coronation and then his hasty decision about the man  
he wanted Alexandra to wed was more than she could take._

House stopped, in shock.

_Princess Alexandra? _

He looked at the book – it was torn and dog-eared, clearly it was a well-loved favorite.

_Or perhaps it didn't leave her side. _

He remembered the morning in hospital when he'd had to go through her purse to find her cell phone and call Kate. He flicked the book over and looked at the cover: a woman in a tiara was swooning the arms of a dark-haired man in a tuxedo. _The Italian Princess's Marriage Bargain. _Yes, it was the same one, he was sure of it.

With a trembling sense of dread, House read the blurb on the back.

_Alex George – the pseudonym of Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandra, crown princess  
of Evenovia, is in hiding from her family. Her father wants to marry her off to the cruel and  
vicious tyrant, German billionaire Frederick Gutenberg, while all Alex wants is the  
chance to live a normal life. She thinks she's safe but then her secret, ordinary life is  
disrupted in a chance encounter with the debonair and charming sheriff of the small  
town she's chosen to hide in. Can the sheriff keep her safe and protect her when the  
ruthless Frederick comes to claim his bride? _

He blew out a breath.

_Princess Alexandra?_

It was more than a coincidence. With nothing better to do, he sat back and began reading the story, skimming through pages of dialogue and sex scenes, pausing to read more thoroughly at the passages that described the princess and her background.

_Princess Alexandra._

It was amazing, really, House thought, how thoroughly Alex had been able to adapt her life to match the character in the book. The birthday deadline by which she was supposed to return to her family, the secret support from her mother, her terror of Frederick and his cruel streak, even the virginity – although the character in the book was twenty-two, not thirty-six. He even remembered Alex sharing the tearful story of her grandmother's battle with cancer – it had all been a complete fantasy.

And Frederick, the shadowy enemy he'd been up against this whole time, _didn't even exist._

House could imagine how it had happened – maybe she'd been reading the book on the plane on the way back from Paris, her mother's ruined body in the hold. Or perhaps she'd picked it up after the ordeal was over, needing an escape from the horrors she'd been through. Either way, through coincidence or a really fucked up fate, she'd started reading a story whose central character shared her name, _Alexandra._ Her tormented subconscious had taken that as a starting point and run with it.

Her delusion was sophisticated. The need for secrecy over her "true identity" meant it was unlikely any of her friends or colleagues would have known that Alex was leading a completely fictitious life. After all, he'd been the closest person in her life for months now and she'd never given him the "royal" story, sticking doggedly to her "European aristocrat" line. Lie. And given she and Kevin had only moved to Princeton a few months before the tragedy, she probably hadn't had time to develop a network of friends who would have noticed her strange behavior.

_But there was Kate. _

House rummaged through the pile until he found Alex's cell phone. He found Kate in the contacts and dialed, not entirely sure what he was going to say when she answered. He was saved from saying anything when the call went to voicemail. He didn't bother leaving a message.

Wearily, House got up and wandered into the bedroom. He felt a cold shudder as he walked through the apartment, knowing now what had happened there. He didn't want to begin to think about what it would have been like for Alex. To watch her husband shot execution-style, according to the news reports. The media had no detail on how Jack had been killed, just that he'd been taken forcibly from her arms.

He felt a surge of protectiveness for his own child and checked his watch. Where could she be?

In the bedroom House ignored the cheerful marching ducks. He lay down on the bed to wait. They'd find a way through this. They had to. He'd get Alex the best psychiatric help available; they'd deal with it. She'd suffered an unimaginable loss, but he could help fill that gap. He'd be more attentive, he'd be more grateful when she cooked and cleaned up after him. He'd be the best father imaginable and change any diaper, any time, even the explosive ones.

House closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the past few days and the horror of the past few hours weighing heavily on him. He still hadn't cured the patient.

For the first time ever, House couldn't bring himself to care.

-

* * *

-

Alex watched from across the street as Greg came home. She then went to the side of the building where the courtyard garden was. It was possible to see into the apartment a little from there – as she'd discovered that very first day she'd met Greg.

She watched him pace around; she heard the violence and didn't have to work hard to guess that he was breaking down one of the doors to the locked rooms. _Fool_. All he'd find was the remnants of someone else's life. What did it matter? His incessant curiosity was both one of his most endearing traits and his most annoying.

Now that she'd had time to process the information that he was working for Frederick, Alex had got over her sense of betrayal. Oh, it was still there, and she knew that once she was safe, there'd be plenty of time for the tears and grief for herself, her fatherless child, and the life she thought she might have had.

But for now her priority was to get away safely. She had to protect her family – and that meant herself and her baby, because no one else appeared to be trustworthy. Family was more important than anything.

For that she needed the money she'd hidden in the bag under the bed. And she had to make sure that Greg could never find her again. He was too dangerous to her and to their baby. She'd let him get close to her – close enough to learn her secrets – and now she was paying the price. He would have to, too.

Alex stayed crouched in her hiding spot, watching as he returned to the living room, sat heavily on the sofa and then began going through her things. He wasn't even trying to be careful, she realized. There was no way she wouldn't have noticed what he'd done. All it meant was that she was right: time had run out. They were ready to take her away, to return her to Frederick and her fate, and Alex had just a few hours to escape, if that.

Her legs and back began to ache; the baby protested the cramped position with feet and elbows. Her stomach grumbled her hunger. But Alex waited until the sun fell below the horizon. She knew he was in the bedroom. No movement had occurred for some time – he must have fallen asleep.

It was risky, but Alex didn't have a choice.

She got up, shaking out the pins and needles in her feet. She let herself into the apartment as quietly as possible, listening for any sounds in the evening gloom. Sure enough, she could hear his snores from down the corridor. Picking her way carefully over to the cupboard in the corner, Alex pulled out the supplies she'd been hoarding ever since she'd come to Princeton to escape. It wasn't much, but it was enough to help her if she needed it. She had no gun – she couldn't stomach the idea of shooting someone – but she had a knife, which looked threatening, even if she had no intention of using it. There were a few other things she'd collected: rope, handcuffs, electrical tape, pepper spray. All carefully put away for the day when she had to protect herself.

She gathered the few things she needed and then padded quietly into the bedroom. He didn't budge – she knew what he was like when he'd been working on a case like the one he had this week. His exhaustion would be overwhelming and he'd sleep deeply for hours.

The knowledge gave her a stab of fresh grief – she knew him so well. At least she thought she had, and yet all the time he'd been colluding with her enemies.

Crawling awkwardly on her hands and knees, Alex pulled out the gym bag from underneath the bed and took it out to the living room. With the light from a streetlamp coming in through one of the windows, she confirmed that the cash was all still in there. At least ten thousand dollars, by now, she figured. More than enough to get her to Mexico and pay for her care until the baby came.

She grabbed a couple of apples, stuffed her strewn belongings back into her purse and zipped up the gym bag again. There. Everything was ready for her to make her escape. Just one last thing to take care of.

She returned to the bedroom, the knife gripped tightly in her hand.


	12. Chapter 12

House woke up when he felt the cold grip of metal around his wrists. Momentarily confused, he shook his head, tried to sit up, and then realized that he'd been restrained.

"What the hell—?"

He blinked when the bright overhead light flicked on. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he saw Alex standing just inside the bedroom.

"Alex, what's going on?" He looked down and realized his wrists had been handcuffed together. A length of nylon rope was threaded through the handcuffs and, when he traced it with his eyes, he discovered it had been tied to each end of the bed head. It was loose and he would be able to free himself, but he'd need time to work on the knots and it wouldn't be easy with cuffed wrists. He realized it was the only way she could have restrained him without running the risk of waking him if she'd tried to handcuff him directly to the bed.

"I'm sorry, Greg," she said.

"This is ridiculous, let me go," House said, instantly irritated. His anger faded through, when he saw the large hunting knife that she was brushing back and forward against her leg. "Alex," he said warningly. "Whatever is going on in your head, you don't need to do this."

She shook her head. "It's not my fault Greg. You're the one who blabbed to Frederick. What did he promise you? How much money did he give you?" She seemed sad rather than angry.

"Alex," House tried to reason with her. "I know this all seems confusing to you, but Frederick did not contact me. _Frederick doesn't exist_."

"They've been following me," she insisted. "I saw you talking to them."

"Earlier today?"

She nodded.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar."

She might be delusional, but she was still smart, House reminded himself. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place. He grappled for an explanation that sounded like honesty. "I was talking to my friend Lucas in his car this morning. I saw you drive off – I waved to you." _That might be pushing it._ Now probably wasn't the time to tell her that Lucas was only there because House had hired him to investigate her, even if it was the truth.

"No you didn't."

"Alex, untie me. Let's sit down and talk about everything. Let's talk about you and your family, and what's in the other rooms of this apartment." House carefully eyed the knife she was holding. She didn't seem to know exactly how to hold it – or maybe her palms were getting sweaty – because she changed her grip on it every few seconds. He wanted to think that she'd never hurt him, but then he realized he had no basis for that assumption. Alex was as delusional as it was possible to get – he had to face the fact that anything could happen.

"Talking won't help. I have to go away with the baby and keep it safe."

"Alex, don't leave. I want you and the baby to stay here with me. I want us to have a life together. We can be a family."

She looked on the verge of tears. "How can we be a family if I can't trust you? And how can we be a family if Frederick keeps coming after us? We'll never be safe."

"I'll keep you safe." House was rapidly thinking through a different approach. "I don't want Frederick to have you. Let's run away together. Untie me and I'll go with you. I'll keep you and the baby safe."

"How can I trust you?" she repeated.

"Alex, do you really think this is a lie? We're living together, having a baby – I wouldn't do that just to scam you."

"Frederick would go to any length—"

"Frederick wants you for himself! If I was working for him, wouldn't I protect his interests? Wouldn't Frederick be mad if he found out I took your virginity? That I got you pregnant?"

"Maybe."

He could see the indecision in her eyes and pressed the advantage. "I'm a doctor, Alex. I can take care of you and the baby, when it comes. We can go somewhere far away and hide. We won't even need to go to a hospital. It'll be just us, okay?"

"Just us?" she asked uncertainly.

"I promise. Untie me and we'll work things out together."

The hesitation in her expression and her posture was growing, House could tell. He didn't know what he'd do once she untied him, but as long as he was free, and he could get rid of that knife, he'd deal with the rest of it as it happened.

"I never meant for this to happen," she said, her shoulders sagging.

"I know."

"I love our baby." She rested one hand on her belly and then her eyes darted away. "And I love you. I tried not to, but I do."

"I know you do. And I . . . I love you." At that moment House wished more than anything that was a lie. But it wasn't.

Alex dropped the knife to the floor and came around to the bed where House sat, fishing a key out of her pocket before reaching over and undoing the handcuffs.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and then gave her a weak smile as he rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," she said. "_Pardonnez-moi_." _Forgive me. "Je t'aime."_

"It's okay. _Je t'aime aussi, amoureux._" _I love you too, sweetheart._

Alex sat down on the bed and shuffled over to him awkwardly, her belly making her clumsy. It made House smile despite the seriousness of the situation, and he reached out and put an arm around her shoulders, resting his other hand over her stomach.

"Where will we go?" she asked after a moment, leaning into his embrace. "Maybe the mountains? Or Mexico? I was thinking of going to Mexico earlier."

House wondered what the right course of action was. If he said the wrong thing now, she could go running. Or she could pick up the knife again. But he also knew that it was time for her to face her past.

"Alex, do you remember someone called Kevin Blake?" he asked.

A confused expression crossed her face. "Kevin?"

He nodded. "Yes. Kevin Blake. He was your husband. And Jack, your son."

She swallowed hard. She nodded, but frowned. "I don't know . . . maybe."

"You lived in this apartment with them. They were . . . killed."

House heard a knock on the front door, but Alex seemed oblivious. She seemed sunk back inside herself, like she was rummaging through internal filing cabinets, searching for the right data.

"House?"

House had never been more grateful to hear Wilson's voice. Keeping up the gentle rubbing of his hands on Alex's back and stomach, he called out. "In the bedroom."

Wilson's face appeared a moment later, clearly apprehensive about what he might find. When he saw them in their intimate embrace, he looked almost embarrassed. "Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

Looking over Alex's shoulder, House shook his head and gave Wilson a wide-eyed glare that clearly said "no". But all he said aloud was, "Alex is a little confused."

Belatedly Wilson seemed to take in the rope and handcuffs on the bed, the knife lying on the floor near his feet. His eyes widened and he gave House an _oh my God_ look.

"I've got some contacts at Mayfield," Wilson offered in a half-whisper, inconspicuously flicking the knife with his foot until it disappeared under the bed. "Want me to make some calls? My car's out the front."

House nodded. Wilson's mention of his car being out the front brought it home to House that, although he was glad that they'd reached this turning point, it also meant that everything was going to dramatically and irrevocably change – and soon. Alex clearly had to be hospitalized. And that was going to happen within a matter of hours.

Who knew what would happen after that?

As if in protest, House felt the baby kick at his hand from within Alex's belly. _Don't forget about me_.

Alex dropped her head against his shoulder again, and the two of them sat there, House rubbing her gently, in silence. He could hear Wilson talking out in the living room and a few minutes later he reappeared. "Let's go, it's all set up," he said. "They said not to worry about packing, just to get there straight away and worry about the rest later."

"Alex?" House said gently. He wondered how to explain taking her to psychiatric facility as part of the fantasy he'd concocted. But then she hadn't seemed to have taken any notice of Wilson, so he didn't know what was going on in her head.

Alex's head popped up at the mention of her name and she looked at House, her eyes empty, hollow with sadness and grief. "You're Greg, aren't you?" she asked hesitantly.

"That's right," House said, feeling as if a spell had been broken.

Alex looked down and watched him caress her belly for a moment. Then she picked up his hand and moved it off her, holding it with two fingers like an unpleasant piece of garbage. She shuffled away from him and leaned against the pillows, curling up into as small a ball as her stomach would allow.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Greg." House frowned – they'd already been through this.

"No. I mean . . ." Her voice broke off, trembling. Then she looked up at him and House almost recoiled from her haunted expression. "Who am I?"

"You're Alex," he said, trying to sound as definitive as possible.

"Alex? Hmmm. Alexandra." She seemed to be testing out how the word felt in her mouth. "Princess Alexandra Feliciana—"

"No." He shook his head. He was no psychiatrist, but he felt certain it was time for this delusion to end.

"No," Alex repeated.

"You're Alex Blake."

"The princess is gone?"

"That's right."

"You killed her."

"I . . . uh . . ." House had no idea what to say to that.

"You loved her, but you killed her."

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

Alex nodded, as if that explained a lot.

Wilson approached the bed, giving House a confused, wide-eyed look. "There's a bag full of money out on the sofa," he said under his breath. "Where did that come from?"

House shrugged. _Who knew?_

"We should go."

House looked over at the woman sitting next to him on the bed. He barely recognized her. "Yeah. Let's go."

-

* * *

-

The ride home from Mayfield to Princeton was conducted in silence. House was grateful that for once Wilson restrained his instinctive need to talk everything out.

Since their conversation on the bed, Alex had fallen into a near-catatonic state. She had passively allowed House and Wilson to put her in the car, made no attempt to resist when they accompanied her into the psychiatric facility, didn't even glance back as the nurses and orderlies led her away down a long corridor.

After spending over an hour quizzing House on everything he knew about Alex and the events that had lead to that point, the attractive blonde psychiatrist that had met them at the door had advised them to go home and that she'd call in the morning to give an update. She refused to be drawn on when it might be possible for House to see Alex again.

In some ways House felt grateful for his tiredness, because he knew that in any other state he might have made a fuss, been the difficult version of himself, but all he'd managed to do was cooperate with her questioning, shrug at her vagueness, accept the card with her contact details, and ask Wilson to take him home. Wilson had raised his eyebrows in surprise at House's capitulation, but had readily agreed.

Without needing to be instructed to do so, Wilson drove House to his Baker Street apartment, pulling up out the front without turning the engine off.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked.

"I guess."

"Want me to come in?"

House figured the fact that Wilson still had the car running and hadn't taken his hands from the steering wheel was statement enough on what Wilson wanted him to say. "Nah."

"Need me to take care of anything at the hospital for you?"

_Oh yeah, the patient. Wonder if he's still alive? _"I'll call Foreman once I get inside."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Guess I have to wait and see."

"Hmm."

House could tell Wilson was suspicious – that he was concerned that House was taking it all far too easily and that the inevitable explosion must be still to come. But House didn't have the energy to explain what was going on in his head – and wasn't sure if he could, anyway.

"I'm happy to take you back when you're able to visit," Wilson offered.

"Thanks." House's lethargy lifted just enough to allow him to undo his seatbelt and get out of the car. "Wilson? Don't say anything . . . don't tell—"

"Of course," Wilson interrupted.

House gave a short nod and began dialing Foreman as he limped into his apartment. As soon as the door was unlocked he searched for, found and swallowed two Vicodin. His leg was killing him.

"House, where have you been?" Foreman demanded.

House rubbed a hand over his face before checking the clock – it was almost two in the morning. It felt like days had passed since he'd left his office after receiving Lucas's call. It felt like years since he'd slept. "Solving the Middle East peace crisis," he snapped. "What's happening?"

Foreman went into detail on the patient's condition who was, in fact, still alive, much to House's surprise. His condition had deteriorated and there was still no reason why.

House sighed heavily. Sleep would have to wait, yet again. He interrupted Foreman in the middle of his long, pointless repetition of the patient's symptoms. "I'll be there in twenty." Closing his phone with a snap, House looked around his forlorn apartment. _Welcome home,_ it seemed to say. _Should have known you couldn't do any better. _

-

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks everyone for your lovely comments. A couple of people have asked me how long the story is -- one of the issues with reading fan fiction on line is that you can't just glance at a book in your hand and know instantly where in the story you are! Just so you know, you are not quite halfway through, so there's lots more to come. I hope that's a good thing.


	13. Chapter 13

Alex sat staring at the wall for hours, searching through her memories, trying to make things make sense.

Her last clear memories were painful to even think about. She recalled being in a hospital room, a little like this one, only with more monitors and nurses and doctors running in and out. She had been bruised and bleeding, and they were applying bandages, murmuring quietly, reassuringly. One nurse kept brushing the hair back from her face, giving her a sad smile, saying that everything would be okay now, she was safe. The feeling that accompanied the memories was suffocation, as if she was drowning – a panic that had risen and risen until she couldn't stop it from escaping in a scream, a scream that she barely recognized as coming from her, ripped from her very soul. And then she was injected with something and things went fuzzy again.

When she next awoke she traced her memories back again, this time deliberately avoiding the screaming part. It took a while, but she worked out that the next memory she had, after the hospital, was of sitting in a nice, neat office, with a kindly looking man. He had wanted Alex to talk about what it had been like to watch her husband's blood make a spatter pattern on the wall like something from a TV crime drama. He wanted the details on how it had felt to hear her son cry as he was taken from her arms, listen to the echo of his distress against the tiles in the bathroom, and then, even worse, the silence when it stopped.

She couldn't bring herself to say anything about it aloud. As if by not doing so she could keep it from being real.

There'd been a funeral – three coffins. Her mother. Her husband. Her child. No one had known what to say. How could they?

Her father had turned up, tearful and apologetic, but then he too had gone away after failing to penetrate the depths of her grief. He'd promised to take care of her, but his definition of care was to assure her that the people responsible would be _eliminated_ and she'd never have to worry for her safety again. Which was stupid of course, because what did she have to fear now, anyway? She had nothing left.

Her father also _cared for her_ by providing a generous monthly deposit in her bank account while he went back to his new wife and other, younger children, who didn't scare him with their blank looks and unreachable anguish.

Alex nodded to herself. The funeral and her father's farewell, watching as he climbed into a big black limousine and drove away, was the last memory that made sense. After that point it was like a bramble-hedge, messy tendrils going in every direction, nothing seemed to line up or fall into place.

She remembered clearing out the main room of the apartment, watching as her furniture was loaded onto a truck and taken away. She remembered new furniture being delivered, but she wasn't quite sure why. There were locked doors, but she never thought to open them. There was work – where occasionally she saw Kate, the only friend who'd stuck around even though they'd only met a couple of months before it had all happened.

Throughout the jumble was a face – the only consistent thing about it. A severe face, but one that could smile kindly; whose eyes could express a thousand emotions. And a voice; a warm, rich, grumbly deep voice that made her feel just a tiny little bit safer.

She saw the face leaning over her in a hospital bed, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. She saw him lying next to her, sleeping, long eyelashes fanned out and the hard lines of pain around his eyes relaxed. She saw him leaning against the kitchen counter as she cooked, laughing about something. And she saw him poised over her, face contorted in pleasure as he sighed her name.

As if to underline that last thought, the baby inside her kicked hard.

Alex let out a shaky breath. Had he drugged her? She considered that idea for a while and then dismissed it. It simply wasn't practical. No, the reality was far more scary. Something else had happened. Her brain – her very _self_ – had gone away for a while and during that time she'd created a new life. Both literally and metaphorically.

A blonde woman with a kind smile opened the door of Alex's room and came to sit on the edge of the empty bed opposite her.

"Alex? My name is Dr Beasley. Can we talk?"

_Another person who wanted to talk. _Only this time Alex thought that was indeed what she wanted to do. Somehow she needed to get to the bottom of this. There had to be a way to make it all make sense. _There had to be. _

_-_

_

* * *

-  
_

The patient died.

One organ system after another shut down and then, just at the point that House would usually have his epiphany and find the solution, the patient had a massive cardiac arrest.

House had no epiphany.

It was probably for the best, House tried to console himself by saying to his team. The guy had been so maimed by whatever disease had ravaged him that it wasn't worth living anyway. That didn't stop him being enraged with himself for not figuring it out.

Was this it? Was he losing his mojo?

First he lived with a woman for ten months without realizing everything about her was a lie. The man who lived by the maxim _everybody lies_ had failed to recognize the biggest lie anyone had ever tried to put over him.

Then he'd failed to solve a case – sure, that had happened before, but the failure this time seemed more bitter than usual.

He sat in his office, tossing his ball against the wall, thinking. Wondering what he could possibly do to make himself feel better. Out of nowhere, he had a startling image of Amber, clear in his mind as if she were really there. _Oh yeah. _Cutthroat Bitch would love to see him sitting there, defeated. She'd be so smug, so superior, that the great Dr House had finally failed. He could almost see her standing in the corner, one side of her mouth quirked up in that satisfied "got one over you" grin.

He shook his head to clear it. Great, now he was hallucinating. Maybe he was as nutty as Alex. Perhaps they could organize a twin room at Mayfield.

Talking to Wilson was his usual panacea, but it didn't feel like that would work this time. Wilson hardly knew Alex – House had made sure of that. He couldn't see how Wilson could fail to be anything other than astonished and disappointed that she'd fooled him so thoroughly.

He couldn't think of anyone else who could possibly understand.

_Kate. _

House caught the ball and slammed it down on the desk.

_Alex's friend Kate._ The conversation they'd had when House had called her about Alex's flu still pricked his sense of curiosity. Something about it hadn't been quite right.

House lunged for his backpack and located Alex's cell phone in the side pocket. He'd had the foresight to grab it as they were leaving her apartment, but she hadn't been allowed to keep it at Mayfield, so he'd kept it on him. He checked it – it was very low on battery, but he hoped it was enough to check for a phone number. Quickly he got into her contacts list and located Kate, scribbling down the number just before the screen blacked out, battery dead.

With a mix of curiosity and dread that he couldn't separate, House dialed the number from his desk phone.

"Good morning, Kate Foster speaking."

"Kate – this is Greg House – do you remember me? I'm Alex's . . ." he trailed off again, still uncertain as to what his title was.

"Oh, yeah, Greg, of course. Hi, how are you? Is everything okay? I haven't seen Alex around today."

"Yes, well, actually, no. Everything is pretty much as FUBAR as you can get."

"What's up? Is Alex alright? Is the baby okay?"

"_Physically_ everything's fine." There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and House didn't speak, waiting to see what the response might be.

Kate let out a long breath. "_Physically_, she's fine," she repeated slowly. "So, _mentally_ she's not?"

"What makes you say that?"

Kate didn't seem to like the question. "Look, do you need me to arrange time off for Alex again? Can I speak to her? Does she need me to visit?"

House decided to show his hand. "Alex has been admitted to a psychiatric hospital."

"Oh, God."

He could hear the sound of a door slamming shut and then what sounded like a chair being dragged against a wooden floor. Even though he'd never met the woman, he pictured Kate pulling out the chair and falling back into it.

"I knew things weren't right," she said eventually. "I knew she wasn't doing anywhere near as well as everyone else thought. But I didn't think it was that bad."

House still didn't know exactly what story Kate knew but he figured, like him, she'd been given the European aristocracy line. "So you knew she had difficult situation with her family?"

"Situation?" she asked, confused.

Kate's tone told House immediately that he was wrong. She knew what had had really happened. All of it probably.

"How long have you known Alex?" House asked.

"I met Alex – and Kevin – when they first moved to Princeton. They'd only been here two months or so when it happened."

House sighed. "Right." _If only he'd taken the time to speak to her more fully when Alex had been in hospital. If only she'd said something about her concerns for Alex's mental health. If only . . . _

"I know a lot of people found it hard to deal with what she'd been through. She hadn't had time to make many friends here, and most people aren't prepared to deal with that kind of thing for someone they've just met."

"But you are?"

House could almost hear the shrug. "I guess I . . . just hated to think of her dealing with it all alone."

"How much time have you spent with Alex since it happened?" House still couldn't understand how Kate could have known the real story and not questioned Alex's strange behavior.

"We have lunch about once a week." House heard the noises of a cigarette being lit and of Kate taking a long, trembling inhale.

"Did she ever mention anything about someone called Frederick? Or her father? Or a royal family?"

"No." She paused. "What's happened? What's going on?"

House figured it couldn't hurt to fill her in. She might even have information that might help. He gave her a quick summary of the events of the past couple of days, including some of the details of Alex's pretend royal life.

Kate was suitably shocked. "I can't believe it," she said, over and over as House spun out the tale.

"Believe it. I don't know exactly when it started, but sometime after the assault, Alex started living a different life. And you didn't know _anything_ about it?" he pushed.

"After the funerals she refused to talk about what had happened or even mention Kevin or Jack. She said that if we were to be friends, I had to accept that she wasn't prepared to talk about her past. I mean, not in so many words, but that was the gist of it. We just talked about work and students and our studies."

"And that's it? You never tried to talk to her about it? You never thought it was strange that someone who'd been through what she'd been through was just going about her life normally?" House knew he was starting to get aggressive and accusatory, but he couldn't help it.

"I'd only known her for two months!" Kate cried, clearly upset. "I figured she was getting therapy."

"And that makes it okay?" House snapped back.

"Oh God." House heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I just . . . I didn't want to push her. I thought it was good for her to have a friend who just let her be. Who just was there for her as if everything was normal. I thought it was the right thing to do."

"Well it wasn't." House had gained some satisfaction from blaming Kate for everything, but it had faded quickly. It didn't change anything. Alex was still gone.

"I'm so sorry," Kate said quietly, her breath uneven.

They were silent for a while. House wasn't sure how to finish the conversation and yet he couldn't quite bring himself just to hang up on her.

"Obviously Alex won't be coming into work," he said eventually.

"I'll speak to her supervisor."

"You should be . . . discreet. Alex will want to come back to work eventually and—"

"Of course," Kate agreed quickly, cutting him off. In truth House had no idea if Alex would ever be well enough to work again. "I'll say it's health problems related to her pregnancy. They'll probably say she can start her maternity leave from now." Kate paused for a moment. "And I'd be happy to visit her – when she's allowed visitors. Let me know if I can do anything."

The words were a cliché, but somehow House could tell the sentiment behind them was not. "Sure," he said, wondering what anyone could do, really.

They hung up and House sat there, his office loomingly quiet once again.

-

* * *

-

House went home and slept for twelve hours. In the gloom of the late evening dusk, he woke when his phone rang. He rolled over and groaned, figuring he'd ignore it. But then he remembered everything that had happened, and blinked to find himself in the strange yet familiar surroundings of his own bedroom. At that he reached out and grabbed the phone, desperate to get the call before it rang out.

"House," he barked, although it didn't sound as effective as it usually did, his voice was crumpled by sleep.

"Dr House, my name is Dr Nolan, I'm a psychiatrist at Mayfield."

The voice was deep and reassuring – perfect for a shrink, House figured. He didn't know exactly what to say and the other person seemed fine with the lengthy pause. In the end he went with what was top of his mind. "Is Alex okay?"

Dr Nolan answered, sounding as if that was exactly the question he'd been expecting. It annoyed House further.

"She's doing okay. She's confused and we did have to sedate her at one point this morning. But—"

"Sedate her?" House hated the harried, worried tone in his voice, but couldn't do anything about it.

"She became hysterical."

"Oh." Well, at least there were some emotions still in there, House thought, reflecting on the empty, Alex-shaped vessel he felt he'd left behind at Mayfield.

"Dr House, from the description Dr Wilson gave us, we were under the impression that this might have been a pregnancy-induced psychosis. But your conversation with my psychiatrist seems to paint a different picture."

House nodded, even though the doctor couldn't see him. He'd thought that too, for a moment, dismissing it immediately once he realized that Alex's delusion extended far beyond her pregnancy. "I think it's been longer than the pregnancy, although that might have brought things to breaking point. She's certainly been more paranoid in the past couple of months."

"Okay. We'll take that into account as we investigate. Thank you."

The doctor's calm demeanor and patient questions snapped House's thin strand of patience. "What do you mean investigate? What is it? What's wrong with her?" House felt like he was on the outside of himself looking down, watching as he berated the psychiatrist with questions, sounding like one of the relatives of his own patients.

"As I said, we're beginning our investigation."

"So you haven't found out anything! Any reasons for her delusions. You have nothing to tell me." House found himself irrationally angry.

"These things take time, Dr House."

"Time! I don't believe you have—"

"Dr House." The other doctor interrupted, his voice firm enough that House did, in fact, stop. "One of my psychiatrists has begun working with Alex this afternoon. We'll try to talk to her, to find out more about how this happened and what treatment we can try. But you have to accept that this will take time. There will be no miracle solution."

House slumped back against the pillows and ran a hand over his scratchy beard. Of course he knew that. He just didn't want it to be true.

In the face of House's silence, the other doctor continued. "Why don't you come in to see me tomorrow afternoon? I'll be able to tell you what, if any, progress we've made with Alex, and you and I can have a talk too."

House could hear the implication – _you need therapy_. Thankfully Dr Nolan seemed smart enough to avoid actually saying that.

After a moment of silence, the psychiatrist spoke again. "I'll see you at four pm tomorrow, Dr House. Good bye."

House flipped the phone shut and lay back to look up at the ceiling.

_Now what?_

_-_

_

* * *

_**A/N:** If you haven't yet heard quite enough from me yet, I've set up a blog to talk about my fan fic writing experiences. Link is on my profile page. Stop by and say hi, or tell me to shut up and get back to writing my fics. :)

I also want to send a belated thank you to my beta, Souleswanderer. If it wasn't for Soules saying "it's not crap", and also "you've used the word 'just' 40 times in that one paragraph", none of this would ever make it out into the big wide world. Ta muchly!


	14. Chapter 14

"Hello Dr House, I'm Dr Nolan." Doctor Nolan put out his hand and gave a genuine, guileless smile. "May I call you Greg?"

"Nolan." House regarded the other doctor suspiciously, but did return the handshake. "Just call me House."

"Okay. As you know, I'm supervising Alex's treatment. I can keep you informed about her condition in general terms. I also think it would be very beneficial for Alex if you helped us to better understand what happened to her."

House said nothing.

Nolan smiled. "I've heard a great deal about you – I mean from a medical perspective. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

House snapped. "Forgive me if I find it a little less than a pleasure to meet you. Given the circumstances, I think I'd much prefer never to have met you."

The psychiatrist nodded. "I understand."

House felt rage well inside him. "See, that's the kind of shit that makes my blood boil!"

"What?"

"_I understand_," House mimicked. "Of course you fucking don't. How could you? And if you could, you wouldn't have asked me here anyway!"

Dr Nolan surprised House by giving a low chuckle in response, completely unperturbed by the attack. He nodded slowly. "Of course, House, you are right."

Nolan gestured to a couple of chairs facing each other in front of a fireplace. To his surprise, House found himself taking a seat. He felt the need to bring the conversation back under his control, though, and so he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and studied Nolan intently. "So, what have you concluded?"

"It's a little early for conclusions."

"Don't give me that crap. You've already made a broad diagnosis, or else she wouldn't be here. Not to mention the fact that if you haven't you don't deserve that shiny little nameplate on your desk over there."

Nolan did another of those infuriating slow nods.

"So?" House said angrily, aware he was beginning to sound like a petulant child. He hated it, but despite the fact that he'd known him for all of five minutes, this guy seemed to know exactly which buttons on House were marked "Press here to get under my skin". If the situation were different, he might have been impressed.

Nolan cocked his head to one side as if considering whether or not to cooperate. He seemed to reach his conclusion and sat back more comfortably in his chair. "Well, from the story you gave us, we've managed to piece together a little of Alex's history. We also tracked down the trauma therapist who worked with Alex immediately after the incident. They only had a few sessions together before Alex stopped attending, but he has confirmed that he was concerned for her wellbeing."

House's breath caught. "You mean someone could have prevented this? He knew she was in trouble and _did nothing?_" He half rose out of his chair in anger, but then, after a moment, collapsed back into it, not sure where he was trying to go. But his ragged breathing gave away his barely contained fury.

Nolan spread his hands wide. "You know very well, House, that a patient cannot be forced to attend therapy unless they are sectioned. At that time there was no reason to believe Alex was suffering from anything more than terrible grief."

"I don't believe it," House muttered. "What kind of an idiot was this guy?"

"She was never diagnosed with PTSD, but I think it's likely she suffered from it," Nolan continued, ignoring the outburst.

House snorted. "You think?"

The psychiatrist ignored him again. "Multiple incidents of trauma are classic triggers for PTSD. With her mother's violent death closely followed by the incident with her husband and child, especially given that, according to the police report, she witnessed—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." House didn't want to think any further about the horrific experience Alex had been through.

"And I'm sure you know that PTSD sufferers are more likely than the normal population to suffer from delusional disorders. But this is one of the most interesting cases I've seen. It has elements of grandiose and persecutory complexes, but the detail and intricacy of the delusion are astonishing. I'm actually considering whether it might be a form of dissociative amnesia or even a mild form of dissociative personality disorder. After all, she invented the persona of Princess Alexandra to protect herself from the memories of her family's deaths. And now that she's switched, become Alex Blake again, she seems to have little memory of her life during that time."

Nolan got up and wandered over to a credenza and poured two glasses of water, setting them down on the table between them.

House let his words sink in. He remembered Alex's final words to him: _you loved her, so you killed her._ Was that what had happened? Because his incessant curiosity couldn't live with the gaps in her story, he'd destroyed the protection she'd created for herself. And in doing so, destroyed the woman he thought he'd loved. His anger faded and he just felt bone-deep tired. "So what, she doesn't remember me?"

"She has patchy memories. I've been told that she knows who you are, and has some memories of being together with you. She told her therapist that she remembers being with you in the hospital one time when she was ill. She remembers waking up next to you one night and, another time, cooking you a meal. But no, from a day-to-day perspective, she doesn't remember much of the past two years."

"Geez." House ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't even find the energy for a proper swear word.

Nolan pursed his lips in a straight line. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

House let out a weary sigh. "How much worse could it get?"

"Alex doesn't want to see you. And she has stated that she doesn't want the baby. I don't think she'll harm herself or the child, but I have her on watch just in case."

"What do you mean, she doesn't want the baby?" House was surprised to hear himself say that – that the baby was his first priority. And yet it felt right.

"Do you know the baby's sex?" Nolan asked.

"No. Alex wanted it to be a surprise, but I suspect it's a girl. Why is that important?"

Nolan shrugged. "I wasn't sure if her use of the word 'it' reflected the fact that she didn't know to use 'he' or 'she' as the appropriate pronoun, or if it was another way of distancing herself from the child."

"Distancing herself?"

"Her words to the therapist were definitive. She calls the baby a 'stranger'. She said she'd let it live in her until it was time to come out, but then she never wanted to see it again."

"_What_?"

"I know it's hard to understand. But as far as Alex is concerned, apart from a few moments of her life with you that, to her, feel like dreams, yesterday she was grieving for her husband and child that had just been murdered. Today she's woken up to find that two years have passed and she's pregnant with a baby she doesn't remember to a man she doesn't know."

House let out a long breath. He'd recently taken to cutting his hair very short, a way of disguising its loss. Alex had suggested it and she'd bought clippers – running them over his head one night in the bathroom, insisting it would be far more dignified. He'd protested, although had actually liked it. But right then he missed having the curls to run his fingers through. "So, what does that mean?"

"I think it's safe to assume that Alex is going to be with us at least through until the baby is born and perhaps longer. We'll work with her to see if we can integrate her memories and, of course, address the PTSD symptoms that are most likely the source of all this. Obviously we'll be working towards getting her to bond with the baby.

"You'll be medicating her? Haldol?" House asked, the medical question now the only thing he could rationally discuss.

"Yes – for now. But we'll watch dosages carefully. Given she's almost into her third trimester, there's little risk to the baby. We have a specialized mother-baby facility here, so we're familiar with these kinds of cases. Assuming her physical condition remains stable, she can deliver here."

"Right." It was best to think of her as a patient, House decided.

"Dr House." Nolan paused, giving him a serious, sad look. "It would be wise to prepare yourself for the fact that it is likely Alex will reject the child. Of course that's not the outcome we would prefer, but it is possible – especially in the short term. You need to be prepared for that outcome."

"Prepared for what exactly?"

"Prepared to take care of your daughter. Or to hand her over to social services."

It was the first time anyone had said the words "your daughter", and it caught House by surprise how much of a shock it was. Of course, he wasn't one hundred percent sure the baby was a girl. But at the last sonogram he'd watched as the baby had moved and was relatively sure there'd been no penis where there should have been. "It could be a boy," House said absently.

Nolan gave him an indulgent smile. "That's not really the point, is it?"

"No." House sighed. A single parent? He couldn't imagine it. And yet he felt worryingly uncomfortable with the idea of his child being handed over to the foster system and having some idiot raise his undoubtedly intelligent offspring.

"You do have time," Dr Nolan said kindly. "This is not a decision to rush. Think it through."

House nodded.

"In the meantime, I'll continue to update you on Alex's progress. It might become useful if we arranged some supervised visits for you, to help her reconnect with the time you spent together. Would you be willing to do that?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "But you said she doesn't want to see me again."

"That's how she feels right now, and right now we feel it would be in her best interests not to force it. But if that changes, it could be important to have you begin to interact with her again."

The two men sat in silence for a while.

"She doesn't love me," House said eventually.

"What do you mean?"

"Princess Alexandra did. I've been loved before, believe it or not. I know it when I see it. She did. But this Alex doesn't. She barely even knows me." House felt something suspiciously like grief start to well inside him. It was beginning to sink in that the woman he had known and loved was, to all intents and purposes, dead. Her body was now occupied by someone else and merely acting as an incubator for the child they'd created.

"House, I know this is difficult. If you want to talk, if you want to discuss your feelings—"

House stood up abruptly. "No thanks."

"I know this isn't fair, it—"

"Who said the world was supposed to be fair?"

Nolan stayed silent.

House grabbed his cane and headed for the door. "Call me when you have an update," he said over his shoulder, wanting more than anything to get out of there.

-

* * *

-

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

"It's time for your therapy session with Dr Beasley."

Alex awkwardly stood up from the table in the group room where she'd been knitting. Her mother had taught her to knit one winter in Paris, soon after they'd left Argentina. They'd sat together and knitted scarves and it had been so engrossing that she'd gotten through her first European winter – a shock to a little girl who'd never, before then, ever seen snow outside of picture books.

She hadn't knitted anything since she was a teenager. And trying again now, at first she'd found it hard to get the necessary rhythm for a consistent tension, but after some trial and error she'd mastered it. Even with the wide, limp plastic needles they'd given her – ones with hardly any points that meant it was tricky to pick up stitches. She figured anything sharper could be dangerous to some of the people around her, but she also knew they thought she might be a danger to herself. They were wrong; she'd seen enough death to know that she didn't want to inflict it on herself or the innocent baby inside her. It wasn't its fault that she didn't want to be its mother.

Alex made her way slowly down the corridor towards Dr Beasley's office. She had been in Mayfield for five weeks and was seven weeks away from her due date. She'd begun to waddle in that way that was necessary to maintain her balance. She also became short of breath with any kind of exertion, so she'd learned to take everything at a slow pace. It seemed no one in here minded.

"Alex, how are you feeling?" the blonde doctor greeted her warmly.

"Fat," Alex said with a grimace.

"Not too much longer now."

"I guess not."

Once they were seated, the psychiatrist leaned forward. "Have you thought any more about what we talked about in our last session?"

What they talked about at _every_ session, Alex thought. "You mean seeing Greg?"

"Yes."

Alex banished the thought from her mind as soon as she left the office after every meeting with the psychiatrist. It was too painful to even brush past the idea. "Yes," she lied.

"And?"

"I'm not ready."

"Alex, it's been almost six weeks since you arrived here. He's called almost every day to check on you. I think it's time you saw him face to face – even just for a few minutes. It might help with your healing. It might help you to remember the time you spent together, to understand the relationship you had with each other."

Alex shook her head.

Dr Beasley grimaced and let out a small sigh, but clearly decided to move on. "Have you given any further thought to the baby's future?"

"He can have it when it's born." They'd been over this so many times and yet Dr Beasley seemed to think that if she asked the question _just one more time_, Alex would miraculously have a different answer.

The doctor gave her a sad but patient look. "Okay, we'll come back to that later. What were you thinking about earlier, when you were knitting? I saw you through the window – it looked like a happy memory."

Alex felt her mouth curve into a smile. It was a happy memory. She seemed to have so few of those. "I was thinking about my mother."

"Did you used to knit together?"

"Yes. She taught me. We . . ."

Dr Rachel Beasley watched as Alex's face came to life, describing the first year she and her mother had lived in Paris. Alex's parents' divorce had been amicable, she'd been able to surmise, but her father's desire to marry again combined with his standing in the local community meant it was easier for his ex-wife and her child to live elsewhere.

It was a breakthrough that they'd begun to talk about her mother over the past couple of sessions. Dr Beasley hoped that by tracing forward chronologically they'd get to the move to the US, Alex's marriage, her first child, and then the trauma. She desperately hoped it wouldn't take as long to get there as it had to get to this point. Each night after a session with Alex, Dr Beasley would go home and hug her husband and squeeze her three-year-old son so hard sometimes he would cry out to be let go. _"Mommy, you're hurting me!" _

All her training told her that you couldn't rush these things, that patients had to heal in their own time. But with this case she felt as if she had a looming deadline. She wanted, more than anything, to reunite the little family born of trauma. Before the baby was born and was sent into foster care – the most likely outcome, Dr Nolan had informed her. As far as Nolan was willing to predict, he didn't believe the baby's father would be willing to take on the role of single parent.

Getting Alex to see Greg House was an important step, but was still a big leap for Alex to take. Dr Beasley could only hope – and do her best as a therapist – to move things on as fast a possible.

-

* * *

-

For weeks, House rang Mayfield every few days, mostly to be told the same thing. He wasn't entirely sure why he did it – they would certainly call him if Alex's status changed, but it felt like the only active thing he could do in a process that made him feel completely powerless. On her birthday, the anniversary of when they'd met, he sent flowers, but no comment was made except to say that Alex had received them.

Wilson hadn't said a thing about Alex's whereabouts to anyone. And yet House's team, Cuddy, even other staff in the hospital who'd never before expressed an interest in speaking to him, had started asking him how things were going now that word had got around he was on the big countdown to first-time fatherhood. House had adopted the approach of saying something offensive and insulting in response and, for the most part, it worked. It took longer than he would have liked, but, after a while, people stopped making the effort.

Dr Nolan called him once a week, on Fridays, to give him an update. Mostly there was very little to tell and House got the impression more than once that Nolan's calls weren't so much a check-in on Alex as a check-up on _him._ But House refused to take part in any kind of therapy, no matter how surreptitiously it was conducted.

Wilson noisily opened House's office door, startling him.

"Drink?"

Since their trip to Mayfield, Wilson had taken to popping into House's office on Friday after his rounds. If House didn't have a patient, they often went out for beer and pizza. It hadn't taken long for House to realize that Wilson had somehow found out about Nolan's Friday updates, but he didn't say anything. In fact, it was a relief to be able to share whatever he'd been told and then get on with his week. Get on with his life.

"Sure." House's patient had been discharged the day before and he didn't have a new one yet. He hoped that his next patient might conveniently wait until Monday before falling ill and began gathering up his things.

"News?" Wilson asked, looking over to check that the door between House's office and the conference room where Kutner and Foreman sat was closed. It was. It always was these days. House didn't want to be surprised on any of his Mayfield phone calls.

"She's talking about her mother. They're up to when they moved to the States and apparently she's just started talking about meeting Kevin."

"Kevin?"

"Her husband."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Any further word on . . ." Wilson trailed off.

"No." Alex still refused to see him.

Wilson sat down in the chair opposite House's desk, watching as House shut down his PC and wound up the cord of his Bose noise-canceling headphones. "House, have you decided what you're going to do?"

House's head snapped up from concentrating on untangling the cord. "Do about what?" he snapped, even though he knew exactly what Wilson meant. Wilson had never broached the subject before, which had been a good thing, because House still wasn't ready to talk about it. Wasn't sure he ever would be.

Wilson shook his head. "House. If Alex doesn't change her mind, what are you going to do?"

"I've been looking into prices on the white slave market. Apparently you can get quite the tidy little sum for a healthy white baby."

Wilson sighed.

"Shall we go to Giuseppe's or the bar?" House asked, declaring the subject officially closed.

"Giuseppe's," Wilson said. "Their pizza's better."

-

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks everyone for your lovely reviews. Sorry for not replying personally, I'm moving house this week (that's 'house', not 'House' lol) and life is a little hectic. I will do my best to keep up with my usual publishing schedule, assuming I can find my computer in the boxes!


	15. Chapter 15

Alex woke up with a start. It was still dark, but she could hear the murmur of hushed activity in the corridor outside her room and a light patter of rain against the window.

Her room was near the nurse's station – in the mother/baby unit at Mayfield, the closer you were to your due date, the closer your room was to the nurse's station. She could understand the logic, but it was hard enough sleeping through the night when you were thirty-seven weeks pregnant without the added noise and disturbance of people moving around, talking, and clattering on keyboards.

But that wasn't what had woken her. Shifting in the bed to try to get more comfortable, she thought back, trying to trace the threads of her dream back to understand why she had woken.

She froze, half propped up, when the memory returned.

A face, haloed by sunshine, frowning down at her.

A bruised elbow.

A sprained ankle.

A grazed palm.

White cotton gauze applied with care.

A red lollypop.

_Her fallen angel._

The memory had the fuzzy, hyper-real qualities of a dream, and yet Alex knew it was real.

Her blue-eyed fallen angel who had checked her over with care, teased her with her lingerie and then followed her home.

Until that moment her only memories of Greg House were patchy and disconnected. He was like an acquaintance that you've met a handful of times and yet can never remember their name. But this memory was much clearer. It was like the opening chapter of a book.

_Once upon a time there was a princess and a doctor . . ._

It was hard to hold on to the threads of the story; they trailed off like bright silk ribbons unspooling into the darkness. There was too much in her head already, no space for more.

Alex had to prioritize. Dr Beasley wanted her to talk about Greg – she mentioned him in every single session. But up to that point Alex had maintained – truthfully – that apart from those moments she'd already admitted to, she had no memory of their time together. Because of that, they instead spent their time dealing with her life leading up to before her encounter with him.

The part of her life that felt safe, and happy, and fulfilling.

Her childhood in Argentina, the spoiled, indulged daughter of a rich, powerful man and a beautiful woman.

Spending time with her mother in Paris.

Boarding school in England.

University in America.

Meeting Kevin and marrying him.

The birth of Jack.

The three of them a happy family, with occasional loving visits from her mother, thrilled with her new role as grandmother.

Money was never an issue. Alex had no qualms taking a regular allowance from her father – he could afford it, and she knew it was his emotionally-stunted way of showing that he loved her. It meant she and Kevin could live the life of academics in a comfort that would otherwise have been impossible.

No one could have asked for a nicer life.

It was so much better to talk about that every day with the psychiatrist. Not to talk about the time after – the loss, the wandering, the sense of being away from herself, looking down at what was happening. Greg was in that part of her life, and she couldn't talk about that, so she couldn't talk about Greg. She so desperately wanted to pretend all of it had never happened, but it seemed like her brain wasn't going to let her.

Another flash lit up behind her eyes as she closed them. Greg's hand on her belly, resting there, feeling the kicks from his baby. The light of pleasure and awe in his eyes that he tried to hide from her because it didn't fit with the carefully composed grumpy misanthrope persona he'd built for everyone to see.

He had two identities too, in a way.

A wave of nausea hit her at the thought. She knew Greg House. _Really_ knew him. In a way very few people did.

But she couldn't deal with that now. She had to prioritize.

Mentally she stuffed all these newly surfaced memories back into a box and shoved it to the back of her mind. She wasn't ready to look in that box properly. She didn't have the energy she needed to follow the ribbons and see where they led.

She could only deal with one thing at a time.

Maybe one day she'd get to that box.

One day.

One ribbon at a time.

-

* * *

-

On the Friday two weeks before the baby was due, Nolan's update contained some different news.

"Alex would like you to be there when the baby is born."

"What?" House felt his stomach plunge. All these weeks he thought what he wanted most was for Alex to decide she was ready to see him. But now that she actually had, he felt rigid with fear.

"She told Dr Beasley that she thinks it's right that the baby's father is there."

House was adept at reading between the lines. "So she doesn't want to see me."

"Well." Nolan paused meaningfully. "I think it's significant that she's considering the baby's welfare. And yours, in a way."

"_In a way_," House echoed. He reached over and scratched the cat that was sitting on top of his desk, making itself comfortable amongst his papers. His patient that week was convinced the cat had predicted her death. Idiot.

"It might not be quite what you desired, but it's something. It's an opportunity to move forward."

"So what, I'm just supposed to turn up when she goes into labor? No preamble; no conversations; no, 'Hi, how've you been and by the way you're not really a princess?'. Just, 'Push, honey, you can do it?'" House snorted at the idea. "That's just weird."

"House, you know it's impossible to predict how a recovery is going to progress. Sometimes we are simply dictated to by the patient's ability to move through what has happened to them. Alex experienced unimaginable trauma and it is taking time for her to process it."

"Right." House knew what Nolan was saying was rational, logical and entirely made sense. But he was sick of waiting, sick of having his life on hold until Alex decided whether or not she'd deign to see him. She might not be a princess anymore, but she certainly wasn't beyond a little royal, arrogant behavior. House was sick to death of being the "subject" in this little game of the princess and the peasant.

"I've made sure that our medical staff know to inform you as soon as Alex goes into labor."

"Great. Well, if I'm not busy, I'll see if I can fit her in."

"House?"

House had been caught out by this trick of Nolan's before. He just said one word, often House's name, without asking any direct question. And somehow, House managed to then find himself blabbing away, answering a question that had never been asked. He wasn't falling for it this time. "I said, I'll see if I can clear my schedule."

"You'd miss your daughter's birth in petty vengeance against a mentally ill woman?"

"You really don't know me very well at all." House disconnected the call with a click.

-

* * *

-

The following week House was at the whiteboard in the conference room, dealing with a diagnosis for a married couple that had both been admitted with respiratory difficulties. A strange case, especially given that the husband was already dying.

House had his morning coffee in one hand and was deftly balancing a donut and the black marker in the other, somehow managing not to eat the marker or draw on his mouth.

They'd ruled out environmental factors and now were looking into some of the more remote possibilities as he drained his coffee and swallowed the last bite of his sugary breakfast. His cell phone rang and he was going to ignore it, when some instinct caused him to reach into his pocket and check the caller.

Nolan.

It was Wednesday.

"I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder to his team, ignoring the irritated looks they shot him as he disappeared into his office. "What?" he demanded as soon as he answered the call.

"Alex is in labor."

"I figured."

"Her contractions are still more than five minutes apart, but given this is her second baby, it may not take long."

"I know that."

"So if you're going to be here in time, you need to get in the car now."

House made his decision in a split second. "I'm on my way." He flipped the phone closed, grabbed his backpack and then returned to his annoyed fellows.

"Where are you going?" Taub asked.

"Gotta go see a man about midget," he said as he walked out of the conference room. "I'm on my cell."

There was silence as House disappeared.

"Wait, does that mean Alex is having the baby?" Thirteen called out.

House didn't answer.

Less than an hour later he was at Mayfield. Nolan met him at the entrance. It was strange being back there – he remembered watching as Alex walked away down the corridor, not looking back. He wondered, as he did almost every day, what she looked like now. He wondered if her face had changed shape as it did for some pregnant women. Was she rounder only in the stomach and breasts, or was she fuller all over?

Now that he was actually going to find out, House found himself uncharacteristically nervous.

"I'll take you to her," Nolan said.

House nodded once and then followed as they made their way through a series of winding corridors and double-swinging doors, as well as going past more than a couple of security check points. Nolan was simply waved through and House didn't lag too far behind, fantasizing that if he did, he'd get locked in, because once they knew how crazy he really was, they'd never let him leave.

"She's through here," Nolan said, stopping before an ordinary looking hospital door – one with a little window slot cut out of it.

"Anything I should know?" House asked, half because it was a good question and half because he wanted to delay the moment of facing her.

"Just be yourself."

House snorted. "You _really_ don't know me."

"Be kind," Nolan said. "Don't push. Don't ask her about the future or try to make her recall her time with you. Just focus on what you're here to do now. That's enough for her to deal with. The rest can wait."

_Yeah, wait. _

_Waiting. _

_Because he was so good at that. _

House gave a short nod. "Okay." He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Alex was lying on her side facing away from him. She was lying so still for a moment he thought she might be asleep. But then she shifted, turning to face him.

"Hello, Greg," she said. Her voice was polite, even. She addressed him as if he was an acquaintance she'd accidentally bumped into.

"Hi. I mean . . . uh . . . hello, Alex," he said, knowing he looked and sounded pathetic, but unable to help it. She looked – _beautiful_. Her hair – that luscious curtain of silk that he used to bury his head in just to inhale her seductive aroma – was loose and hanging over one shoulder. Her face was a little rounder than he remembered, but it suited her. Those rich chocolate eyes were the only thing that gave her otherwise calm demeanor away. They betrayed her nervousness, her fear. It was a fear House thought had very little to do with impending childbirth and a lot to do with the fact that he was standing right there in front of her.

"Alex is doing very well," a voice said and belatedly House became aware of the other people in the room. A nurse stood observing the monitor readouts. A blonde woman in a white lab coat sat in a chair near the bed. She rose and held her hand out to House. "I'm Rachel Beasley. I've been working with Alex. She was in her session with me when her labor started."

He nodded, not sure what to say to that.

"Alex wanted you to be here to see your child born," Dr Beasley explained.

"Uh, yeah." Clearly his usual articulate self had taken an unplanned vacation, House rued.

Dr Beasley widened her eyes and made a gesture that Alex wouldn't be able to see. It took House a moment to realize what she was indicating and then another moment to decide whether or not to cooperate. Slowly he turned to Alex. "Thank you," he said, feeling Beasley's pleased approval radiating behind him.

"You're welcome," Alex said simply, not looking at him.

His heart twisted. He had hoped so fervently that he'd fallen out of love with her.

He hadn't.

-

* * *

-

Four hours later, House sat in a padded chair in Mayfield's otherwise empty nursery, his daughter snuggled securely in his arms. It was a feeling like nothing else he'd experienced in life – ever.

He'd seen babies born before, of course, even delivered a couple as a resident. But none of them had been _his_, his baby making an entrance into the world, the woman _he _loved wracked with the agony of labor pains. Alex's distress, surprisingly, affected him far more than he'd thought it would, given that he knew what to expect. As a result, he had done all the things he'd never pictured himself doing: rubbed Alex's back, wiped her face with a wet cloth, held her hair back and muttered soothing things as she vomited. He'd even let her squeeze his hand to the point that it still ached.

The whole time she seemed to exist completely within herself. She treated him the same way as she treated the midwife and the obstetrician. She didn't converse with him, she didn't seek him out. She seemed just as happy to have the nurse hold her hand as him. House was mindful of Nolan's advice not to push. But he wouldn't let her ignore him, so he put himself in her way, made himself the closest person to ask when she needed something.

It had worked, kind of. While she still hadn't given him any special acknowledgement, she submitted to his care, allowed him to touch her and to encourage her.

His heart had swelled when the tiny pink and messy creature in his arms had yowled her displeasure to the world for the very first time. They hadn't had that moment he'd seen in most birthing rooms when the new mom and dad tearfully embraced and marveled over their miracle. As soon as the baby was out, Alex seemed to withdraw, keeping her eyes averted from everyone. She shook her head when House tried to get her to hold the baby and Dr Beasley, who'd dropped in and out throughout the labor, gave a subtle warning look, so House didn't force it. He shrugged and had the moment to himself, barely able to give up the little bundle when a nurse wanted to take her to be cleaned and tested.

A feral, animalistic protectiveness welled and burst inside him. He'd give his life for his baby – and Alex – without a second thought. But conversely he'd never felt the need to _live_ more acutely. They depended on him. He had to keep them safe from the world.

He admitted now that he'd never stopped loving Alex, but he thought he'd never understand how she'd invented an entire life, become a new person and seduced him with a fictional personality. What on earth would drive someone to do something like that?

Now, he was beginning to think, maybe he got it. If a gunman threatened them, House knew without doubt that he'd do anything – _anything_ – to keep the two females in his life safe. Only what if he failed? What if he survived and Alex and their daughter didn't? What would he do?

He doubted he would invent a new persona for himself, recreate himself as some runaway European prince.

But. He certainly wouldn't be the same person after that, delusions or no delusions. How different would he be? He couldn't be sure. After the flood of emotions he'd been through in the past few hours, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

The baby in his arms stretched and yawned. Her face turned instinctively towards his chest and her pouty little mouth smacked together a couple of times before she relaxed back into sleep again. It wouldn't be long before she awoke demanding to be fed. He wondered if Alex was going to feed her. He hoped she would, if for no other reason than it would be better for the baby start with at least a little breast milk to build up her immune system.

Just as he was wondering how to stretch out his leg without waking the baby, Nolan opened the door a crack and poked his head inside. He smiled broadly. "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

He walked over to where House sat and pulled the pink blanket away from the baby's face with a crooked finger. "You were right, it was a girl," he said, his voice low in deference to the sleeping baby.

"Uh-huh."

"She's beautiful."

"Takes after her mother," House whispered in reply. "Except I think she's going to have blue eyes. Alex's mother had blue eyes."

"Have you named her yet?"

"No."

"Will you take her home with you?" Nolan asked.

"What?"

"You can't put off the decision any longer, House. It's crunch time."

"But . . ." House had been putting off thinking about it for weeks, months, now. He'd become so successful at avoiding the question that even now, with the child in his arms, he'd managed not to think about her future. "Alex might still . . ."

Nolan nodded kindly. "Yes, she might. But not now. She hasn't changed her mind – Dr Beasley was sure to check that with her before the birth and she's just spoken to her again."

House's shoulders slumped. As much as he was overwhelmed by protective feelings for the little girl, those feelings also told him how inadequate it would be for him to be her sole carer. How could a child fit into his lifestyle? Into his apartment? "I can't . . ." he began, but found he couldn't continue. Saying it out loud would be so cowardly.

A nurse appeared. "Is the baby ready for a feed? I have some formula ready if you want to give her a bottle."

Before House could reply, his cell phone rang, loud in the quiet room. It startled House so much he jolted the baby and her face screwed up instantly, her wails joining the chiming phone. "Here." House handed the screaming baby to the nurse before reaching into his back pocket for the phone. Nolan just watched, seeming oblivious to the cacophony.

"House."

"Now the husband's getting worse," Taub said.

"And the wife's sats are in the toilet," Thirteen added.

"Is that a _baby_ crying?" Foreman asked.

"I'll be right in," House said, hanging up before there could be any more questions. He headed for the door. "I have to go," he said over his shoulder.

"Doctor House!" Nolan called after him. "You can't just leave. Decisions have to be made, you have to . . ." Nolan stopped talking once the door had swung shut. He turned to the nurse who was trying to comfort the little girl and held out his arms. A moment later he sat in the chair House had just vacated and fed the baby a bottle of formula that she sucked on greedily, her unfocused blue eyes blinking up at him sleepily.

"What are we going to do with you, little one?" he murmured to her.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **I didn't particularly like "Simple Explanations", but parts of that story fit my plot, so I've made use of it in this chapter (and, you might have noticed, in the last one too). A lot of things have been twisted around to suit. And thanks everyone for the good moving wishes. I'm here, mostly sorted, but still not quite settled. Hope to be back in the usual routine shortly!

-

* * *

"House?" Thirteen asked, whirling around to face him as he walked into the conference room in the late afternoon.

"House?" Foreman echoed. "Should you be here?"

"Have Mister and Missus Patient miraculously recovered?" House asked sarcastically, throwing his jacket over the edge of the nearest chair.

"Well, no, but—"

"Then yes, I should be here."

"But if Alex—"

"If the baby—" Taub and Thirteen spoke at once.

"Focus!" House yelled. He eyed the group around the table, noticing for the first time the team was one down. "Tell me what's going on and tell me where the little curry muncher is."

"Kutner's dog's sick. He should be in later," Taub explained, a bald lie, House knew, before moving on quickly to describe the patient's symptoms.

After a quick diagnostic session in which the wife's trip to Hawaii was discussed and discarded, the team went off to treat the patient with fluids and antibiotics.

House went home early for a nap, exhausted from his long and emotionally tumultuous day.

He still hadn't told anyone about the baby.

An hour after he'd fallen into a restless sleep he was woken by a call from Foreman. He and Thirteen had been worried by Kutner's absence and had gone to his apartment to investigate. The news of what they'd discovered couldn't have been more shocking.

For lack of anything else to do in response, House got up, dressed, and went back into the hospital. He wanted to blame his team for not noticing that Kutner must have been showing signs of decline. Something. Some mention of a bad relationship, financial difficulties, _something_.

But the criticism died on his lips. He'd lived with a woman for ten months without realizing she was dangerously delusional. What did he know?

Instead they sat around the conference table in silence – Thirteen's lanky wet hair a reminder of the shower she'd had to take to rinse off Kutner's blood from her futile attempts to resuscitate him.

Cuddy appeared to offer counseling and disappeared again, knowing it was pointless.

Loss.

There had been too much of it. Amber. His father, earlier in the year. Now Kutner.

There couldn't be any more.

He just had to find a way to make it work.

"I'm going home. You guys should too." House stood, grabbed his jacket and went home. In his apartment, he walked slowly from room to room, adding things up in his head, working out how things might be arranged. And then he went to bed.

-

* * *

-

The next day, after curing one patient and not the other – but at least having diagnosed them both – House made the well-worn trek to Wilson's office and opened the door with a bang.

"House?" Wilson looked up, deer-in-the-headlights startled.

House could tell his friend was dreading that House might want him to play grief counselor about Kutner. He knew that Wilson was in no way prepared for that – the loss of Amber was still too fresh and their newly pledged friendship still too raw. "Wilson, I need your help."

"Sure."

Wilson sounded confident, but House could see the reluctance in his eyes. He was almost looking forward to the startled look Wilson was no doubt about to wear.

House took a deep breath and then spoke hurriedly. "I need nursery furniture, a new car, a car seat and some suggestions for girls' names. Oh, and probably several dozen diapers and formula and stuff."

Wilson studied him carefully for a moment, blinking slowly, processing all that House had just said. "So, let me just state the Reader's Digest recap: Alex had the baby, it's a girl, and you're bringing her home to live with you."

"What took you so long?"

Wilson shrugged. "No idea. Mazel tov." After making a couple of calls and finishing up for the day, Wilson started walking with House towards the elevators. "Let's start at Baby Barn. And I've always liked Hazel."

House snorted and suppressed a grin. "Hazel? What, are you _mental_? I'm not calling my daughter Hazel."

-

* * *

-

The following morning House was driving, Wilson was in the passenger seat, and a brand new baby car seat had been fitted in the back of the almost brand new Lexus. They had shopped with the intent that only men can shop with – walk in, see the first thing that basically fits the requirements, pay for it. Job done.

It was all being delivered to House's apartment and the new nanny was supposed to be there to receive it, unpack and organize it all into a corner of House's bedroom. He'd had to move the banjo from its stand beside his bed and hang it on the wall in the living room in order to make room for the crib, but that had been the main sacrifice.

The nanny had been sourced through Cuddy's service and House had hired her after a brief phone interview. He had hacked into Cuddy's email account on a hunch and to his delight discovered her email to the nanny service with comments on all the people she'd interviewed. He picked the one she liked second best – sighing with a tinge of regret as he did. It would have been wonderful to pick the one she listed last, describing the girl as "juvenile, rude, unhygienic and with an IQ only slightly less than her number of piercings" just for chuckles, but even House couldn't bring himself to be _that_ irresponsible. He'd also asked the service to find him a housekeeper who didn't mind a little babysitting, figuring with two people on early and late shifts, he'd still be able to work full-time.

He and Wilson had argued names for pretty much the entire ride, Wilson having picked up a baby names book at the cash register. "Hazel" had been discussed and discarded again. It had become a game, each of them trying to outdo the other with ridiculous suggestions.

"Vera," House called.

"Phyllis," Wilson countered.

"Boadicea."

"Gertrude."

"Hermione."

"Matilda."

House fell silent.

"Your turn," Wilson prompted.

"I like Matilda."

"_What?_"

"Yeah. Okay, so we have Matilda. Second name?"

"House, seriously, you can't call your daughter Matilda."

"Why not?"

"You just _can't_. It's not . . . not _right_," Wilson blustered.

"Something French," House mused, ignoring Wilson. "How about Anais? Alex's mother was called Anna, but that's too plain."

"_Matilda Anais House_," Wilson summed up. "Are you serious?"

"House is a boring name; she needs something more exciting up front. The initials are okay, aren't they? M-A-H – nothing that kids can invent from that?"

"I don't think so. But if you were seriously concerned about what the other kids might think, you wouldn't be going with Matilda."

"Shut up," House said without malice.

A silence fell, and it suddenly became full of the significance of what they were actually doing. So far the shopping and the name arguing and all the hurried organizing had allowed a sense of fun and flippancy about it all. Underneath it though, House knew that what he was about to undertake was neither fun, nor flippant.

"Kutner's funeral is tomorrow," Wilson said finally.

"Yeah."

"You going?"

"I'll be too busy changing diapers."

"Huh."

House expected Wilson to object, but his noise of agreement was as far as it went. Silence fell again as the new car smoothly ate up the miles to Mayfield.

"How much of this is about Kutner?" Wilson asked as they passed by a massive RV that proudly declared its occupants to be "spending the kids inheritance".

House didn't answer. He wasn't exactly sure what this was about. Kutner's death had something to do with. So did his own unhappy childhood. So did his love – and grief – for Alex. It was all a big, muddled mess.

"I mean," Wilson continued, "I'm sure it's not a coincidence that your team member who was a foster kid commits suicide, and then you suddenly decide that _your child_ can't become a foster kid."

After a pause, House finally admitted Wilson was on the right track. "Kutner should have been raised with Bollywood and chickpeas and Ganesha. Instead he was raised with menorahs and gefilte fish and skull caps. He didn't fit in. He never fitted in." House left the implication unsaid: _And that was what killed him_.

"And you're worried the same thing might happen to, uh, Matilda." Wilson's pause before saying the name was purely to let House know his use of it didn't constitute approval.

"Her mother is – was – a multi-lingual PhD student and literature professor. Her father is, well, _me_. How is some high-school-graduate couple in the suburbs going to cope with that?"

"You mean people like your parents? Your father?"

House shrugged.

"This is a big commitment. Personally, financially."

"Financially? You're not kidding. You have no idea how much our little shopping excursion cost. I hope the kid doesn't want to go to college. By the time I pay for a full-time nanny and a housekeeper so there's someone around twenty-four-seven I'm going to be bankrupt. I can't believe I have to hire two full-time employees to take care of a seven-pound eating and shitting machine."

Wilson took in a deep breath and seemed to come to some internal decision. "House, are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, turning in his seat to look at House directly.

House was faintly surprised – he'd expected nothing but enthusiastic cheering from the stands for his entirely responsible decision. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have no idea."

-

* * *

-

Three days after the baby was born, Alex woke up crying. Not sobbing, not wild uncontrolled tears of grief. She was _weeping_. There was no better description.

She couldn't stop.

When she didn't get out of bed to join the group in the main room someone came to look for her. The nurse tried to gently encourage her to move, but Alex couldn't. It was like she was weighed down by something.

A little while later Dr Beasley appeared and sat on the edge of her bed. She gave Alex a sad little smile but said nothing, sitting quietly, perhaps thinking that might encourage Alex to talk. Alex couldn't think of what to say. All the emotions inside her seemed to want to escape through tears and that was all she was capable of. Tears, not talking.

Eventually Dr Beasley reached out and gave Alex's shoulder a squeeze. "Let it out," she said quietly. And then, after a while, she got up and left. Alex heard the whispered instructions to the staff outside the room. _Let her be._

-

* * *

-

Despite his own predictions of failure, over the next couple of weeks House managed to create a domestic arrangement that worked. The housekeeper, an older Italian lady named Maria, arrived early in the morning, not seeming to mind if House was still asleep. She took care of Matilda's morning feed and did the laundry, cleaned up around the place and cooked dinner. The nanny – Kelly, in her early twenties and far too bubbly for House to spend more than a few minutes around – arrived later in the day, staying through into the evening to put the baby to bed for the night, waiting there until House was home from the hospital.

House and Matilda were alone together at night, but the little girl seemed to have inherited her father's fondness for sleeping. Between the nanny's last feed and the housekeeper's early morning one, House usually only had to deal with one sleep disruption during the night, and the nanny left everything he needed for the night-time feed all prepared.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't fun. It wasn't anything like how he thought his life might turn out.

But even though she rarely did anything except sleep, eat, cry and poop, House found himself actively seeking out time to be with the little creature that had totally disrupted his way of life. He often got up earlier than usual so he could feed her breakfast or sometimes had the housekeeper bring the morning bottle into him and he'd feed the baby in bed as he came to terms with the day.

Some afternoons he found himself keen to get home in time to spend time with Matilda before she went to sleep. At first the nanny had tried to get him to read her a bedtime story, but House had given her a scathing lecture about infant brain development. Kelly had surprised him by making a strong counter-argument, cementing House's private view that, to his own benefit, Cuddy had chosen the wrong candidate.

In reality, House had no objections to reading to the baby, he just didn't want to do it while anyone was around to see, and had had to scramble for some rational-sounding excuse. Instead, he and Matilda often had a moment together in the wee hours of the morning. While she had her formula, House read to her from one of his pile of medical journals. Often Matilda would stare up at him, a serious, concerned look on her face, and House couldn't help wondering what kind of thoughts were going on in her still-forming brain. Was she taking in all the details of the case studies and research he read to her? Sometimes he imagined a scene like something from _Family Guy_ where she would suddenly push the bottle aside and make some astute observation about the science and methodology in a ridiculously grown up voice.

The real test came when Matilda was almost three weeks old. House's phone rang in the early hours of the morning. He grabbed it and answered it with a growl, as usual.

"House?" Foreman's dulcet tones came over the phone. "Need you to come in. Cameron called me in to look at a case in the ER. We've got a febrile teenage boy with arrhythmia and breathing difficulties."

"Yeah?" House rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Why are you interested enough to wake me up?"

Foreman gave him the rundown and there was enough about the case that didn't add up that House decided it was worth taking on. "Call the team – I'll be there in twenty." He clicked the phone shut and sat up, yawning.

Then he realized.

It was four am. Matilda was still asleep in her crib. The housekeeper wouldn't arrive for another two and a half hours.

It was the first time he'd faced the conflict between his parenting responsibilities and his medical ones. He sat for a moment, staring into the darkness of the room, listening to the small snuffling sounds of Matilda's sleep.

He shrugged. He had to do what he had to do.

He dressed and then packed the sleeping baby into her car seat. She slept the whole way into the hospital, through the foyer, up the elevator and into the conference room. She even slept through the inevitable cooing and ah-ing from his team. None of them had seen her before and, in fact, none of them were entirely sure she'd been born, because House had never made any kind of announcement and then the news about Kutner had overtaken everything else.

Surprisingly Foreman was the one who asked after Alex. House bluffed through it by saying she was tired, and he'd brought the baby in so she could sleep. It sounded plausible and seemed to work, although he didn't miss the raised eyebrows at the idea that he could be so generous to another human being.

When it came time for the housekeeper's shift to start, House slipped out and took the baby home, returning to the hospital straight away. The early hours meant he'd escaped both Wilson's pitying gaze and Cuddy's enquiring looks.

Obviously the news of the unexpected night-visitor travelled fast, because later that day Chase and Cameron appeared in his office with gifts – a pink teddy bear and the sheet music to _Waltzing Matilda_ – no prizes for guessing who had picked each gift, House thought. He was almost touched, but was careful not to let it show. Cuddy also materialized later that morning with some black-and-white spinning toy that she declared was scientifically designed for newborns' eyesight.

When he got home later that night – leaving his team at work to run blood tests – House placed the pink bear and the odd-looking toy in a corner of Matilda's otherwise unadorned crib. He belatedly realized that he and Wilson hadn't thought to buy any toys or decorative items.

He sat on his bed and looked at his sleeping daughter. They'd faced their first challenge and it had worked out. Overall, after three weeks playing Daddy, House was pleased with how things were going. On the whole, his domestic arrangements worked well – and it seemed he could even manage to cope with his unpredictable schedule.

Life was fuller than ever before. His love for Matilda was unquestioning and unconditional, just like everyone said.

But it still felt like something was missing. A big, empty hole where his heart used to be.

-

* * *

-

The idea that his domestic arrangements worked was completely shot the next afternoon.

"Get out!"

"Whoops! Sorry Dr House!" Kelly giggled, blushed and backed out of the bathroom, a crying Matilda on her shoulder.

His domestic arrangements did work. Mostly. Except for space. Except for intrusions into his personal bathroom time.

"Stupid girl," House muttered, reaching for the toilet paper. It wasn't the first time the nanny had walked in on House in the bathroom, and he decided enough was enough. House swore under his breath and muttered about his privacy being sacred. _At least it used to be._

House had never been so conscious of the size of his home. For a one-bedroom apartment, it was reasonably spacious. But for him, a baby, a nanny and a housekeeper? It was ridiculous. Some mornings House felt anyone observing the procession coming and going from his apartment would be reminded of circus clowns packing themselves into a tiny car.

One of the hardest things for him to cope with about his new arrangements was that he now had very little of the spare time he was used to wasting in copious amounts. Spare time that he might otherwise have used for searching for a new apartment.

And then it occurred to him.

There was a three-bedroom, two-bath, spacious apartment with a courtyard garden sitting empty, just a couple of blocks away.

House knew Alex owned it and he knew she wasn't using it – maybe never would. It seemed only right that she should provide some kind of care for her daughter – even if it was just a roof over her head.

House wasn't superstitious – he didn't believe in bad spirits or negative energy. But for reasons he couldn't logically explain, he did want the apartment to look different – just so it wasn't the same place Alex had lived with her _other_ family. He didn't want to walk in every day and remember what had happened there.

House briefed his housekeeper and a decorator, leaving every decision up to them. His furniture was moved over there, all of Alex's old furniture was sold off; new furniture was bought. His only definitive instruction: the duck wallpaper had to go.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hello sweetie! Aren't you a cutie? What did you do today? Are you looking forward to watching the game with Unca Wilson?"

The pink onesie-wearing baby gurgled and then spit up a little as Wilson bounced her around. Wilson grimaced and held her away from himself, clearly trying to make sure no baby vomit landed on his shirt.

"Here," House said wearily. "Give her to me." He hated the fact that he was now so used to baby spew it no longer fazed him just to wipe the vomit from Matilda's chin with a finger and then scrape it off on a cloth. "And as for what she's been doing all day? Irritating the shit out of me, would be the answer."

"Where are all your . . . staff?" Wilson asked, not without a smirk. "Do they get Saturdays off?"

"They both needed today off – Kelly had a wedding and Maria's daughter was doing something or other. Personally, I don't understand why they abolished slavery. It'd make my life so much easier."

"So, a whole day with the bub."

"A whole day and _two_ whole nights," House grumbled, propping three-week old Matilda up against some sofa cushions in a way that would have made any pediatrician squirm, given that the baby still didn't have proper control of her head and it lolled to the side alarmingly. "I don't know how people do it."

"So that's why you invited me over." Wilson didn't sound particularly put out about it.

"I figure we can play _two men and a baby_. If we're lucky Tom Selleck will turn up and we'll all learn an important lesson."

Wilson frowned, not entirely sure he got the joke.

House waved a hand in admission that it hadn't been one of his best. "I'm tired."

"Want a beer?" Wilson asked, getting up and heading into the kitchen.

House collapsed back on the sofa with a heavy sigh. "Yeah." Matilda started to grizzle and House looked across to find she'd slipped over almost all the way onto her belly and was sliding down the sofa towards him.

"It's not _my_ fault," he protested to Matilda as he picked up the unhappy little girl and hoisted her to his shoulder. "If you can't hold your drink and then you go playing around with strange men, you're going to end up face down one way or the other."

In answer, Matilda snuffled and rubbed her face against his t-shirt. House was instantly aware of the wet patch she'd created but was too tired to care whether it was snot, saliva, tears or vomit. Whatever – it would wash out eventually. He remembered his little practical joke on Cuddy before she'd adopted Rachel – throwing baby vomit on her blouse to see if she'd be upset. He'd been slightly revolted himself as he'd done it, and now? He couldn't believe how much he really didn't care.

Wilson brought two beers back from the kitchen. "I like what you've done with this place It looks . . ." he trailed off.

House looked around, wondering what adjective Wilson was going to use. What it looked like, House thought, was a larger, grander, lighter version of his old apartment. Everything from there had been transferred to Alex's place. The decorator had changed a few things around and had lightened up the color scheme in comparison to his old place. It didn't look so much like a bachelor pad anymore. The piano sat in front of the French doors leading out into the garden. House still wasn't happy with the fact that it got hit by direct sun for a little while each day, but he had to admit that sitting there playing and looking out at the garden was kind of nice. The walls were all creamy white and the decorator had added a light, milk-coffee colored sofa to House's old brown leather one.

Matilda had a room next to the master bedroom, it had been decorated in pale yellow – the decorator perhaps understanding that a single male parent might have found overwhelming pink a little difficult to deal with.

The duck wallpaper had been stripped from the smallest room and the walls painted white. It was now a spare bedroom for Kelly or Maria to use on the occasional nights they needed to sleep over.

"It's a nice place," House said, aware that he sounded slightly surprised.

"Yeah, it is. Cheers." Wilson leaned across and clinked his beer bottle against House's. House leaned forward just a little, careful to move cautiously. The grizzle had turned into heavy little sighs, a sound House knew indicated sleep was on the way.

"You're doing really well."

"Thank you. Any other patronizing things you'd like to say before I kick you out?"

Wilson rolled his eyes, not looking the slightest bit worried by the threat. "You're not going to kick me out. You'd wake the baby." He nodded towards the infant curled up frog-like on House's chest, supported with one hand against her diaper-covered behind.

"The threat of a crying baby should be used in torture for prisoners," House mused. "I wonder if they do that already?"

"Any word from Alex?" Wilson asked, perhaps, House thought, reminded by the discussion of crying.

"No." House took a long drink of his beer. "Apparently she' still crying a lot. And not talking at all. She hasn't spoken a word since the birth. They're wondering if it's post-natal depression." House had finally been able to compartmentalize his feelings for Alex. They were still there, but mostly he'd managed to put them to one side. His weekly calls from Nolan now felt like more of a consult – one doctor asking another doctor for their opinion. At least that was how House liked to think of them. His life over the past few weeks hadn't really allowed much time for introspection and perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

"How can they tell?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged and then cringed as the movement provoked a whimper from Matilda. He froze until he was sure she'd drifted off again. "I don't think they can," he said, keeping his voice low. "She's depressed. Does it matter what caused it?"

Wilson grimaced. "I think you're missing the point."

"Yeah? Would you like to explain exactly what _the point_ is to the baby she abandoned?" House regretted the words the instant he said them. His tone was so bitter he could almost taste it. Wilson looked immediately sympathetic and House hated it. He got up from the sofa – no mean feat with a dodgy leg and a sleeping baby – and turned away from Wilson. "I'm going to put her to bed. She'll sleep for at least a couple of hours so we can watch the game," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "And if she doesn't, she's going to learn to love the taste of single-malt whisky at a very young age."

-

* * *

-

"Alex? You know this silence can't continue."

Alex sighed heavily. She wondered if her voice even worked anymore. She hadn't spoken a single word for more than three weeks.

"You can't keep hiding from these feelings. We need to talk." Dr Beasley's voice held a weariness born of repetition – she'd been saying the same thing every day since Alex had stopped speaking. In a way, Alex felt sorry for her. She could tell the doctor was trying her best and that she was getting frustrated by Alex's lack of progress. But Alex had needed time; time to sort through her mind and as much as Dr Beasley protested that she needed to talk, as far as Alex was concerned that kind of activity was pretty much solitary. Just her, and her brain. And time.

Time had been the key. _Now_ she needed help.

She took a deep breath in preparation, hoping her body still remembered the function of speech. "I wa—" Alex started to say, but her voice broke, rusty with disuse.

Dr Beasley didn't quite manage to cover her startled expression. She got up and poured a glass of water, handing it to Alex quickly as if she wasn't fast then the moment might pass.

Alex sipped gratefully trying to smile at the doctor to reassure her. She was going to talk, it would happen.

After taking a slow breath in and out, she tried again. "I want to . . . talk to Greg."

The only sign of surprise in the other doctor was her eyes widening slightly. She sat back and steepled her fingers together. "Are you sure that's wise? I think it might be better if you and I talked first and then—"

Alex shook her head. "You were encouraging me to talk to him for weeks. Now that I want to, you think it's a bad idea?" Her voice was a little croaky, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that otherwise it worked fine.

"Alex, that was before the baby. Things have changed."

Alex swallowed hard. There was a lump in her throat but she wasn't going to cry. She didn't think she could – surely there could be no more tears left. "I know. But I need to remember what happened. I think I know most of it – but I need check with him."

"You want his help to remember the time you spent together?"

"Yes."

"And that's all?"

"For now."

Dr Beasley sighed. She rearranged herself in the chair and looked uncomfortable. "Have you thought about what might happen if he doesn't want to help you?" she asked gently.

"Um." Alex paused. No, she hadn't.

"I'm not saying that's going to happen, but it's a possibility, Alex. This has been a difficult time for him too."

Alex couldn't quite get her head around that. She was still too trapped in her own tangled emotions to try to empathize with anyone else.

They sat in silence for a while, but then Dr Beasley capitulated. "I'll call him and see what I can arrange."

"Thanks."

"Do you want him to bring—"

"No," Alex interrupted quickly.

"You don't want to see Matilda?"

Dr Beasley had kept Alex informed about the baby and what was happening with her. Alex had tried not to listen, not to let the details penetrate. But some of them had: her name, Matilda Anais, that she was being taken care of by Greg and a nanny. That according to Dr Nolan, who kept in regular contact with Greg, she seemed healthy and happy. Alex hadn't liked the name at first, but it had grown on her. She couldn't deal with anything more than that right now. She shook her head. "No. Not . . . yet."

The doctor's smile let Alex know that her response had pleased her.

"I'll call him today and let you know what we can organize."

Alex nodded. She felt faintly nauseous with anxiety but at the same time the flutters in her belly were a strange kind of excitement too. She couldn't explain why that was, but she was used to having inexplicable emotions running rampant through her system, so for now she didn't question it.

-

* * *

-

"You look like shit." House's office door banged shut behind Wilson – who looked sickeningly cheerful for a Monday morning – as he loudly announced his appraisal of House's appearance.

"Thanks," House replied witheringly. He gave Wilson a sarcastic smile, which quickly turned into one of desperation as he spied the coffees Wilson held.

"What happened?" Wilson extended one of the extra-large lattes and House grabbed it gratefully.

"Kelly sprained her ankle dancing at the wedding and Maria's daughter had some kind of surgery that didn't go well and now she has to look after her grandkids. Why she can't look after one more, I don't know."

"So it's been just you and Matilda."

House swallowed half the scalding drink in one. "For the whole weekend," he said gravely. He could tell Wilson was trying not to laugh and was not pleased. "Get the fuck out of here if you're going to be smug."

Wilson wiped his smirk away with obvious effort. "I'm sorry House. But it's just you've been coasting through this whole single-parent thing so easily. It's kind of a relief to know it's not as easy as you've been making it look."

_Yeah right, easy._ The very thought made House's shoulders slump. With or without hired help, single parenthood was anything _but_ easy, but House wasn't about to admit that to anyone, least of all the sanctimonious Wilson. "It _is_ easy," House countered, bare-faced lying, "if your employees don't go stuffing it up on you."

"So where is she?" Wilson looked around House's office as if he'd find the baby hiding behind the desk.

"At home with Kelly."

Wilson frowned. "I thought you said Kelly had a sprained ankle."

"She does. She almost had a sprained ankle _and_ an appointment at the unemployment office, but now she just has a sprained ankle."

"House, you didn't."

"I strapped it up for her. It's not that bad, she'll be fine." House dismissed Wilson's concerns with a wave of his almost-empty coffee cup. "Besides, how much walking do you need to do with a three-week old baby? I'm crippled and I manage."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"I have given her a short shift – I'm going home at three so she can leave early," House admitted. "I'm not that evil."

"You're pretty evil."

"Yeah. I guess." House drained his coffee and sat it down on the desk with an almost-empty clack.

"Let me know if I can—"

House's phone rang as Wilson spoke and House turned away to answer it.

"House."

"Dr House, this is Dr Beasley." She paused. "From Mayfield?" she added.

_Of course he knew who it was._ "Yes?" House's stomach clenched in worry – it wasn't Friday and it wasn't Nolan. It couldn't be good.

"Alex has asked if you would come in and talk with her."

House had often wondered what it might be like if this ever happened – if the request he both dreaded and longed for ever eventuated. Sometimes he thought he could barely stand the anticipation. He imagined turning up at Mayfield, Alex tearfully admitting how wrong she'd been to shut him and Matilda out, begging for his forgiveness. In his fantasy she'd be on her knees, tearfully pleading her case, and sometimes he saw himself all magnanimous and merciful, earning himself her undying gratitude. At other times – like when he was changing Matilda's diaper for the third time in the middle of the night – he envisaged a powerful revenge. She'd be begging to see him, her very sanity hanging by a thread, and House would airily decline to see her. He'd have her declared incompetent and never allow her to see her daughter, ever. On the day that Matilda graduated from medical school, he'd send Alex a photo of Matilda in her cap and gown with _nah-nah-nee-nah-nah_ or something similarly witty written on the back.

He _was_ pretty evil, now that he came to think about it.

"Dr House?" the psychiatrist prompted.

"What does she want?" House asked, hesitating.

"She wasn't specific. She just said she wanted your help to work through her memories. Before she stopped speaking, before the baby was born, we were trying to work through what she remembered of the past two years and integrate the memories of Alex and Alexandra. I'm not sure how far she's got, but I imagine in the past few weeks she's been doing a lot of introspection."

"And she wants my help?" House asked, sounding dubious. He avoided looking over at Wilson who was eagerly eavesdropping.

"I think it would be wise for me to be there as well, to keep things . . . on track."

"Yeah." For some reason the idea of having a chaperone there with Alex made House feel more comfortable. "And what about . . .?" He trailed off, assuming Dr Beasley would know what he meant.

"She's not ready to see the baby yet, but I'm hopeful that she will soon. I think seeing you is the first step."

"When?"

"Could you come this afternoon, say at three? I know it's short notice, but I think we should take advantage of Alex's willingness to talk right away. I don't want to give her too much time to think about it and possibly back out."

House took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was making his life with Matilda work, despite the weekend hiccup. But he was exhausted, and he only had a few hours until he had to be back at home to let Kelly take off – he had been planning on spending at least some of those hours napping in an empty clinic room. Now he was facing the drive to Mayfield and what was bound to be an energy-sapping session with Alex, whatever form it took.

"I'll see you at three," House said eventually, hanging up the phone. He stared at it a while before he looked over at Wilson.

"That was about Alex?" Wilson asked.

"You were about to ask if you could do anything," House said, ignoring the question. "Well, you're about to cancel your patients for the afternoon and do some babysitting. Wear something that you don't care about getting baby barf on."

"What? House I—" Wilson began to protest.

"Alex wants to see me."

House's pronouncement seemed to evaporate Wilson's objections. He fell silent, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He cleared his throat. "Well, obviously, that's a good thing. But House, I don't know the first thing about taking care of a baby."

"I've seen you drink beer, so you know how bottles work. And you know CPR, don't you? Everything else you just make up as you go along. That's all I do."

-

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks everyone for your lovely comments. Thanks also to those of you who've left encouraging comments on my blog, too! Sorry this is a short-ish chapter, but it made sense to break the story here. I'll make it up to you by posting the next (longer) chapter a day early!


	18. Chapter 18

Alex bit her lip hard, until she was sure she was about to draw blood. And then she started talking, words tumbling out over the top of each other. "I have remembered. I remember you, our time together. When we . . . Our . . ." She trailed off, finding herself not even half as brave as she'd hoped.

"About fucking time."

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. She'd thought she'd been prepared for his anger, but it still came as a shock. Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Dr Beasley lean forward, about to intervene, but she gave her a quick glance to let her know it was okay. "You're right," Alex said quietly.

"So?" he demanded, clearly not prepared to give an inch.

"I want to be sure."

"Sure about what?" He sat back in the chair opposite her and folded his arms.

Dr Beasley's office had never felt so small – it felt like this one man took up more space and oxygen than any one person could possibly need. Alex swallowed hard and forced herself not to look away. Not that she'd really managed to make eye contact with him yet, anyway. "Sure that I remember it correctly."

He studied her for a moment; that curious, piercing gaze boring into her as if he could see right through to her soul. Who knew? Perhaps he could.

"So what? You want a recap?"

It did sound stupid when he put it that way. But for Alex, it was the only thing she could think of to move herself forward. She'd spent weeks in silence, trying to integrate her memories. But she'd done it all by herself, with no external markers to ensure she was on the right track. Dr Beasley couldn't help – she hadn't been there. And that's what had brought her here. Facing the man she . . . Well. She still didn't exactly know how she felt about him. Except for the fact that he made her breath catch, her heart race and her stomach tumble, which was either very good or very bad. Or perhaps both.

"I think what Alex is trying to say—" Dr Beasley began.

"Wait." Alex held up a hand to silence the psychiatrist. "I want to talk. What I'm trying to say, Greg, is that I'd really like your help to work out whether or not I remember things the way they actually happened. I know I have no right to ask for your help, but if you're even half the generous, caring man I remember, then I hope that you will."

He snorted and studied her coldly for a few more moments, as if steeling himself against her words. Then he seemed to reach some kind of internal decision and his arms dropped to rest on the chair. He looked worn out all of a sudden, and Alex saw the bags under his eyes and the stress etched into his skin. The thought that she was responsible for his exhaustion almost made her nauseous to the point of needing to leave the room. She tried to breathe deeply, to contain herself.

"So, how does this work?" He turned his hands palms up in a helpless gesture. "You quiz me and I answer? Vice versa? First person to get twenty questions correct in a row can chose from the money or the box?"

"Could you . . ." Alex hesitated and then figured she'd got this far, she might as well continue. "Could you just talk? Tell me how we met, what happened after that, some of the key milestones you remember? And I might ask you a few questions, if that's all right." She remembered how much she'd always loved his voice, listening to him talk.

He sighed. "I guess. You want to start right from the start?"

"Yes. From when you hit me with your motorbike."

"Hey!" House protested. "You stepped out into traffic in front of me."

Alex felt a faint smile cross her face – it was an old argument they'd had many times. At least she thought it was. "That's right. I did."

House frowned.

"What's the matter?"

"You've never actually admitted that before."

"So it's not true?"

"Yes, it's true. You've just never admitted it." He gave her a penetrating look that made Alex's churning stomach feel like ball bearings had been thrown into the works.

"And then what?" Alex prompted.

"You really want to go blow-by-blow like this? Coz we knew each other for almost a year before you ended up in here. Could take a while."

Alex nodded. "I know, but just for this part, please."

"You want me to talk about the lingerie?" House gave a suggestive sideways glance to Dr Beasley.

"Sure." Alex shrugged. She figured she had very few secrets from the other woman by now anyway.

House settled back into the chair. "Right. Now, boys and girls, is everyone sitting comfortably?" he asked sarcastically. "Good. Then I'll begin."

Alex listened as he recited the events that had been part of their first meeting – the accident, his walking into the lingerie store, talking to the sales person there, finding her address, talking to her at the apartment.

"Why did you go into the lingerie store?" she asked, meeting his eyes for the first time.

"Why did you walk out in front of my bike?" he countered, his blue eyes boring holes into her brown ones.

"I don't know."

"Neither do I."

A slow smile spread across his face and Alex felt like a lock that had had the key fitted into it. Something had clicked into place, although she wasn't quite sure what.

"Now what?" he asked, his eyes dropping away from hers, the moment broken.

"Alex?" Dr Beasley asked gently. "What do you want to do? Do you want to continue to trace your memories after your first date?"

Alex took in a breath and let it out. She honestly had no idea. So far it seemed like everything she thought was on track. She knew that the further into the story they went, the more her _Princess Alexandra_ memories would diverge from reality. She also knew that as they went on they would eventually reach her pregnancy and she was sure she wasn't ready to discuss that yet.

"Maybe we should talk about the first time we had sex," House offered, his tone brittle.

"Why do you want to talk about that Dr House?" Dr Beasley asked.

"And behind door number two we have, a nuthouse doctor!" House muttered under his breath.

"Does something about that make you angry?" Dr Beasley pushed.

"Greg I—" Alex began, her heart beginning to race, thudding against her chest.

"Yes, it makes me fucking angry," House interrupted. He was breathing heavily, but his voice was coldly restrained.

"Why?" The cool tones of Dr Beasley helped Alex feel calmer, but she was suddenly frightened of the man opposite her, of the emotions that clearly swarmed just under his surface.

"Pretending to be a virgin. What an idiot," he muttered under his breath.

"Who's the idiot?" Dr Beasley asked insightfully.

House shot her a withering look. "Me, obviously. Who'd believe a thirty-six year old was a virgin?"

Dr Beasley shrugged. "It's not impossible. Given the story Alex told you, I'm sure it was within the realms of belief."

"I'm sorry Greg, I didn't mean—" Alex began.

"_You didn't mean_," House echoed nastily. "You didn't mean what? You didn't mean to lie to me? To make me fall for your stupid story? To make me take care of you and feel—" He broke off and looked away.

Alex swallowed hard, tears pushing at the backs of her eyes. "You were so wonderful with me. So tender and gentle. I remember that. I'm so thankful for that. You . . ." Her breath caught in a sob, but she forced it back. "You were the first person I slept with since Kevin. I . . ." She couldn't go on.

"I think we've talked enough for today," Dr Beasley said, standing up. "Alex, are you okay?" She reached out with a handful of Kleenex that Alex gratefully took and pressed against her eyes. "Dr House, thank you for coming."

"That's it?" Now he sounded angrier than before.

"I don't think it would be productive to continue any further today. But how about we agree a time to talk again soon?"

"_Productive?_"

Alex heard his voice rise and remembered how terrifying his anger could be when it was directed at her. It had only happened a couple of times that she could remember, but it was hard and cold and piercing, like an ice dagger to the heart.

He stood up and faced Dr Beasley, his nose just a few inches from hers. Alex could only be grateful he wasn't doing it to her.

"What about her daughter? What about our life? What about what happens next?" he demanded.

Dr Beasley didn't shrink away from him, simply stood there and answered calmly. "Dr House, I understand that you want answers to all those questions. But as you can see, Alex clearly can't give them to you yet. You need to be patient."

He muttered a few things under his breath, using language that would make a sailor take notes. Alex put the tissues up to her eyes, hiding behind them.

"Alex?" Dr Beasley asked gently. "Would you like Greg to come back tomorrow?"

Alex took a steadying breath and managed to look up, at the doctor, not at him. "Yes, please," she said, her voice tiny.

Dr Beasley turned to House. "Dr House, do you think you can come back tomorrow afternoon at the same time?"

"I don't know. I have a job and a daughter to take care of. My time's stretched pretty thin these days. I'll think about it," he spat, before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

Alex fell back in the chair, feeling as if she'd gone ten rounds in the ring.

"Are you all right, Alex?" Dr Beasley asked, kneeling down beside her.

Alex nodded. "I'm okay." Her voice shook.

"You did really well. I know that was hard."

"It was hard for him too."

"Yes, it was. It's not going to be easy for either of you. He's hurting and he lashed out."

Alex nodded. "I know."

"But I think he'll be back tomorrow."

"Really?"

Dr Beasley gave her a reassuring smile. "Really."

Alex wished she could believe her.

-

* * *

-

House walked back into the apartment feeling a bizarre mix of guilt, fear, elation and exhaustion. He didn't exactly know what there was to feel happy about, but despite its unsatisfactory conclusion, something had happened with Alex that afternoon that gave him a feeling that, if he hadn't been a died-in-the-wool cynic, he might have been tempted to call _hope_. It was buried under a few layers of anger and despair, but it was there.

Opening the door he couldn't help smiling at the sight of Wilson sitting on the sofa feeding the baby.

"How did you go?" Wilson asked, looking up as soon as he heard the door.

"It was . . . interesting," House said, letting out a long sigh.

Matilda instantly pulled away from the bottle, fussing in Wilson's arms.

"She knows your voice," Wilson said.

"Nah, she's too young for that," House said, dumping his backpack and shrugging off his coat. And yet, he looked over and, sure enough, he would have sworn the little thing was doing her best to look around to find him. "How was she?" he asked, sitting down heavily on the sofa opposite Wilson.

Wilson began bouncing the fussing baby. "Tilly was a good girl. Wasn't she? Wasn't she? Wasn't 'ittle Tilly an itty-bitty princess for her Unca Wilson?"

House cringed at Wilson's baby talk. And also cringed at the way he was dancing the baby around as he spoke. He'd learned the hard way that such movements after a bottle of formula tended to produce messy results.

And then, "_Tilly_?" House demanded.

"Tilly," Wilson said firmly. "It's my name for her. Matilda is the name for some old, matronly zaftig. Tilly is the name for a baby." He held the baby up high, jiggling her in the air over his head. "Isn't it Tilly? Isn't Tilly a name for a bew-di-ful 'ittle girl? Huh? Tilly is a bew—"

Sure enough Wilson's dancing around caused exactly the response had House expected. _Bew-di-ful 'ittle _Tilly opened her mouth and half a bottle of formula came pouring back out over Wilson's shirt and face and, House noted with glee, _hair_.

"Argh!" Wilson barely stifled a gag, holding the baby out to her father as he struggled to overcome the revulsion of being showered with baby barf.

House couldn't help the laugh that shook him. He reached over and took Tilly from Wilson, laughing even harder as he watched his friend frantically try to wipe the baby vomit before it reached his eyes and then look around in horror, trying to find something to clean the rest away.

House couldn't even manage to point to the bathroom, his laughter was so encompassing. "Oh. My. God," he managed to gasp. House looked down at Tilly who was frowning at Wilson in an entirely displeased manner. Through his laughter, House held Tilly up to face Wilson like a puppet. "_We are not amused_," House mugged, still laughing as Wilson disappeared down the corridor.

"It's in my hair!" came the distressed call from the bathroom.

At that, House collapsed into gales of laughter to the point he was in danger of dropping the baby and had to grasp her tight to his chest.

Wilson returned a moment later holding a towel, his hair slicked back from the water he'd splashed on it, dabbing ineffectually at the stains on his shirt. "Bastard," Wilson muttered, as House wiped tears from his cheeks.

"What did I do? That one was entirely your own fault, pal." House shook his head, still erupting with laughter despite trying hard to control it. In a distant part of his mind House wondered if it was partly a hysterical reaction to his afternoon, but he also had to admit it was just plain hilarious.

"You could have warned me." Wilson pouted his trademark _I'm not happy_ expression and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going home to shower."

"I'm surprised you can wait that long."

"Bye."

"Don't you want to say good bye to _Tilly_?" House tilted his shoulder forward so Tilly was facing Wilson.

House loved watching the torn expression on his friend's face – he clearly didn't want to blame the baby but at the same time couldn't bear to wait another minute before he was on his way to a shower. No wonder none of his wives had managed to get him to reproduce, House thought. Babies were messy. Wilson didn't do messy. He probably wore double-condoms in paranoia. "Have you had the snip?" House asked.

"_What?_"

"Just wondering. Because if you haven't, it might be a good idea—"

"Good bye House. Goodbye Tilly. Be a good girl for your Uncle Wilson and give Daddy a nice big explosive diaper, okay?"

"Thanks," House said drily.

Wilson left quickly, holding the lapels of his shirt between thumb and forefinger as if it would be dangerous to let it touch his skin.

As the door closed, House snuggled back into the sofa, still chuckling, the baby lying in the crook of his arm.

"_Tilly_, huh?" He looked down at her and she stared back at him, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. Tilly's eyes were dark blue, almost _royal_ blue, House thought with a touch of irony. He wondered how much they'd lighten up as she grew older. "You like being called Tilly?" House could have sworn her mouth turned up in response. _The name suited her_. "It's too early for you to smile. But go on, do it." He watched carefully and while, as a doctor who understood the developmental milestones of infants, he might have called it gas, as a father he definitely called it a _smile_. "Good girl. I knew you'd be a genius."

House felt a wave of weariness descend. He was thankful that Maria would return in the morning and life would go back to normal. _Normal_. Such as it was.

"Guess who I saw today, Tilly?" House asked.

"_Who did you see today, Daddy?_" House muttered out of the side of his mouth – faking a terrible ventriloquist act.

"I saw Mommy, today."

"_Mommy? You saw Mommy?_" The baby stared up at him and then poked her tongue out in a random way as if to mock him.

"Yes, I did. I went to the nuthouse and there she was."

House took in a breath about to continue the silly to-and-fro but then let it out in a rush. Thinking about what a baby would say about her absent, mentally-ill mother if she could talk wasn't exactly a mine of comedy gold.

"I saw Mommy. And she was sad. But because your Daddy's a nasty son-of-a-bitch, I was mean to her."

Tilly simply kept gazing up at him, her usual serious expression today looking like a frown of disapproval.

"Yeah, I know, I know," he said, sighing. "It would be okay if I didn't miss her so much. I want her back. I want her cooking that delicious food that's going to give me a heart attack one day, and saying naughty things in French, and making me feel good."

He stretched out on the sofa and shifted the baby so she lay crossways on his chest, looking up at him. "It's probably not appropriate for me to mention that your mother is particularly adept at a good BJ, so let's just keep that between us." He gave Tilly a rueful smile. "And it wouldn't be a bad thing if you actually had a mother around either, I guess. At least it'd save me some dough."


	19. Chapter 19

It appeared Dr Beasley was the only one who wasn't surprised when House turned up promptly at three the next day to meet with Alex. House knew _he _was, and he'd driven there.

"Dr House, nice to see you again," the psychiatrist said, leading him into her office without betraying anything other than that she'd expected to see him. Alex, on the other hand, looked up from the chair she was seated in with a startled expression.

"I left my jacket behind yesterday. Figured if I had to come and get it I might as well stop in for another head-shrinking session."

Alex nodded, letting him get away with the stupid lie.

"Well, yesterday you both talked about some firsts in your relationship. What would you like to talk about today, Alex?" Dr Beasley asked, settling into her chair.

Alex took a deep breath and looked directly at House. He realized she hadn't met his eyes very often yesterday and, when she had, he'd been too angry and upset to take much notice of it. Looking into her eyes brought back memories to him. He remembered how dark they would go when they had sex, her chocolate irises almost disappearing into inky blackness. He remembered how they could sparkle when she laughed, and how they could gleam with pleasure when he praised one of her gourmet feasts.

Right now they looked tired. And a little red, as if she'd been crying. He knew he didn't look any better – he hadn't been crying, but Tilly hadn't had a good night. House had wanted to blame Wilson, but he couldn't find any actual signs that Wilson had done anything to upset the baby. Deep down he realized that the child was simply picking up on his own upset and disturbed feelings. With or without a crying baby, House wouldn't have slept well.

"I remember going to the hospital to see you," Alex said, getting straight into the conversation they were there for. "After we first met."

House nodded. "You came to the clinic. You were going to return the lingerie to me."

"I hated that room while I was waiting for you. I was confused, I didn't know why, but being in the hospital made me feel very anxious."

House frowned as he tried to remember back to that day. "You were pretty jumpy when I walked in."

"I think my brain was trying to remember what it had been like the last time I had been in hospital, but I wouldn't let it."

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Dr Beasley lean forward in interest. "Why don't you tell us about that last time you were in hospital, Alex?" she asked.

Alex closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again, they were cloudy and confused. She looked at House. "That wasn't the only time I was in the hospital with you, was it? There was another time?" she asked, ignoring the psychiatrist's question.

House nodded. "Yes. The night we figured out you were pregnant. You had a fever and I took you to the hospital to get treated."

Alex looked away, her nose crinkled in a frown. "That night is really confusing. I think I have most things straight in my mind, but that night I can't make sense of."

"Makes sense."

She looked at him in confusion.

"I mean, it makes sense that it doesn't make sense. You had a high fever and were delirious." He still remembered the fear of watching Cameron treat Alex in the ER. Although he'd known logically that Alex's life wasn't threatened, he'd still been surprised by the overwhelming anxiety and powerlessness he'd felt as he'd stood by and watched.

Alex nodded slowly. "I thought you were Kevin."

"Oh."

"But then I thought you were my doctor. And then, I think I went to sleep. And when I woke up things were clear again."

"Clear?"

She gave him a crooked grin. "Well, delusionally clear. I was Princess Alexandra in hiding, and we were together."

House nodded, but didn't smile back at her. Hers quickly faded.

"Dr House, what happened after Alex got out of hospital?" Dr Beasley asked.

House shifted in his chair before answering. "She went home. I took care of her for a couple of days while she recovered. She had a bad flu, and morning sickness, but it only took a few days for her to get better."

"Is that how you remember it Alex?"

Alex nodded.

"And Wilson came over," House said. "He brought dinner and you told him we were having Tilly."

"Tilly?" Dr Beasley prompted.

House blew out a breath. He'd used the name without even realizing it. "Matilda. We're . . . I'm calling her Tilly." He had to accept now that the name was going to stick.

"So by the time Wilson visited, you two had talked and decided to keep the baby," Beasley summarized.

"No." House shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"We never talked about it. Alex just announced to Wilson that we were having a baby. There was no discussion."

Alex grimaced. "I didn't want to have the conversation."

House looked at her. "Neither did I."

There was a long pause as the two of them looked at each other. House wished fervently he could read minds.

"I wanted the baby, though," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

House nodded. "Me too."

Alex's eyes welled with tears and when she blinked, one spilled over and rolled down her cheek. "How is she?"

"She's good. She has blue eyes." House felt on edge, knowing how important the conversation had suddenly become.

"Like you."

"Like your mother."

Alex nodded. "She sleeps?"

"Yes. Most nights she only wakes once for a feed."

"Just like—" Alex broke off and closed her eyes for a moment, scrubbing the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"Just like who, Alex?" Dr Beasley asked.

Alex refused to answer and House could see her trembling. "She's started smiling," he offered, hoping that might keep Alex talking when she showed no signs of responding to the psychiatrist's question.

"Really?" Alex gave him a watery smile.

"Yeah. And I think she recognizes me."

Alex's smile faded and she looked away.

House rolled his eyes and a dart of anger went through him. "What, now you're going to get sad about that?"

Alex shrugged and curled up a little tighter in the chair.

House blew out a breath and turned to the psychiatrist. He could feel his anger building. "It's not fair. She can't make me feel guilty for the fact that my daughter knows me. I've been the only stable presence in her four-week old little life."

"No, it's not fair, but I don't think Alex means to make you feel guilty, Greg."

House didn't miss the fact that Dr Beasley used his first name. A futile attempt to calm him down. "Then what?" he demanded.

Alex sniffed and looked at Dr Beasley. "Can we finish now? I've had enough."

"No we cannot finish!" House stood up, his tightly stretched patience snapping. "You've had enough, have you? That's great. Great!" he spat. "But I've barely started."

He clenched his fists by his sides trying hard to rein in an almost overwhelming desire to punch the wall in frustration. "Let's just stop pussy-footing around here. I'm sick of these veiled references and obscure questions. The reality is, Alex, that your daughter Tilly needs a mother – whether you're ready or not. I don't know who you are anymore, or how you feel about me, but you and I had a life together. Now we have a little girl together." He sucked in a breath. "I want to know whether or not I can expect my life to turn out even vaguely the way I thought it would!"

Alex had looked at the floor during his entire diatribe and even when a heavy silence fell after his yelling stopped, she didn't look up.

"Greg," Dr Beasley interrupted, "I don't think it's productive if we continue. Let's all take time to calm down and then we can—"

"Calm down? Right. Oh yeah, let's not upset the crazy mental lady who's stuck in the nuthouse. Meanwhile I go home and pick up the pieces by myself." He was instantly aware that he'd said too much. Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair he strode from the room, not waiting to find out what further empty panaceas the psychologist might want to offer.

Alex let out a heavy breath as House stormed out of the room. Dr Beasley reached over and squeezed her arm.

"Are you okay, Alex?"

"_Je suis esclave de l'Époux infernal_," Alex whispered,_ "celui qui a perdu les vierges folles. Je ne sais même plus parler. Je suis en deuil, je pleure, j'ai peur. Un peu de fraîcheur, Seigneur, si vous voulez, si vous voulez bien._"

"Alex, I don't speak French, you'll have to explain it to me."

"It's a verse by Rimbaud," Alex said quietly. "It doesn't matter."

"I'm sure he'll calm down and we can talk through things more rationally tomorrow. It's just going to take some time. Are you sure you're okay?"

Alex nodded. She was as okay as she could be, having just been given a massive overdose of reality. He was right, she couldn't continue to hide in here, hoping that somehow things would get better. And yet the idea of that life, the idyllic one he'd spoken about, was absolutely terrifying to her for reasons she couldn't fathom.

"I think he should bring the baby tomorrow," Alex said, her voice small.

"Is that what you really want?" Dr Beasley asked, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees.

"No. But I don't think I have a choice."

-

* * *

-

"I told you to put the blue dress on her! " House yelled, turning on the nanny and holding Tilly out to her.

"Keep your shirt on," Kelly muttered mildly. One of the best things about his employee, House reflected, was that she seemed completely immune to his rages. Even when he'd forced her to work on a sprained ankle, she'd grumbled and argued with him, completely unfazed by his snark. House liked her far more than he was willing to admit.

Kelly took the baby and quickly re-dressed her into a blue polka-dot cotton dress that House had gone out and bought after leaving Mayfield the day before. In the car on his way home after the session with Alex, his blood pressure still through the roof, Dr Beasley had called. House had given serious thought to throwing the phone out the car window when he'd seen the caller ID, but reason had intervened and he'd answered. _Surprise_ wasn't the word to describe his reaction when the doctor said that Alex had asked if he could bring Tilly to their session the next day.

And now, for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely, House was anxious. Anxious enough to go buy _baby clothes_ – girly, pretty ones other than the utilitarian onesies he and Wilson had first stocked up on. He would never have admitted it aloud, but he knew he wanted Alex's approval – her acknowledgement that he'd done a good job with their daughter so far. Although why he wanted the blessing of a mad woman? That, he didn't know.

There were all together too many emotions and too many unexplained reactions for his comfort. He tried his best to capture and restrain them all on the drive to Mayfield, but he wasn't sure how successful he was. Driving was usually an activity that calmed him – the concentration and the speed helped blank his mind. Of course it was better on the bike, but the car was okay too. Tilly seemed to like being in a moving vehicle as well – after fussing for the first few miles, she slept the rest of the way there.

Indicating for the left turn into the driveway that led to Mayfield's car park, House couldn't help a wry grin crossing his face when he noticed the white Camry in the rear vision mirror behind him. He noticed them all the time now, and couldn't help being surprised by how many of them seemed to be driven by suspicious-looking men. No wonder Alex had become so paranoid.

"Hello, sweetheart. Look at your beautiful little dress!" Dr Beasley cooed over Tilly as House lugged her in to the hospital in her carrier. He again wondered what it was that made otherwise rational adults turn to ridiculously syrupy language around children. It made him doubly glad he hadn't given in to Wilson's urging to buy one of those baby harnesses. As practical as it might be given he walked with a cane, putting the baby in one of those would just bring the gooey sentiments closer to his person.

Entering Dr Beasley's room, House noted Alex was already seated – looking at the floor as usual and holding on to the arms of her chair with white knuckles. Zero chance of having to endure watching her go gushy over the baby, he figured. The one person who he actually wouldn't have minded seeing do so.

"Alex, Greg and Tilly are here. Don't you want to say hello?" Dr Beasley coaxed.

Alex swallowed hard. She felt as if her life had turned into one of those video games Greg was so fond of. She'd been chased through various levels by ghosts and villains – that they were of her own making didn't matter – and now she was just a step away from the final stage.

There was one last challenge to endure: a howling, empty, bleakly gaping maw that opened up right at her feet.

Somehow, she had to cross it.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Greg unbuckle the baby from a car seat and lift her into his arms. She didn't look up, not wanting to see what that looked like for reasons she couldn't name.

The shadows in the yawning abyss darkened further.

_There was nothing to say she _had_ to jump._ She could just stay right here on this side of the ravine – it wasn't so bad.

Still staring determinedly at the floor, Alex could overhear a hushed conversation between Greg and Dr Beasley. Ridiculous of them to whisper, really, because of course she could hear them. Dr Beasley was encouraging him to sit down, to wait, to be quiet and calm, to let her ask the questions. Alex could have told the doctor not to waste her breath. Greg, being Greg, was of course going to do exactly as he pleased.

"Alex, don't you want to look at Tilly?" Dr Beasley asked. "Greg brought her in, just as you asked, and she's a beautiful little baby."

Alex shook her head slightly. She wasn't ready. _She just needed more time. _

"She doesn't bite," Greg said mildly. "At least, not yet."

The baby seemed to be asleep. Not that Alex had actually looked at her yet, but she wasn't making any noise, so it figured she probably was. A strange, pulling curiosity made her feel almost desperate to see what Greg looked like holding a sleeping baby. But it wasn't strong enough to overcome the nameless emotion that kept her tightly gripping her chair.

"Alex? You said to me yesterday that you wanted Greg to bring Tilly, that you felt you had no choice. What did you mean?"

Alex ignored the question. Her whole body was trembling, and it was only through clenching her jaw tight that she could keep her teeth from chattering.

"Alex?"

Alex was getting really sick of hearing her name said in such a pleading, inquiring way.

"Alex? What's the matter don't you want to talk?" Dr Beasley asked.

Alex screwed her eyes closed, trying to shut the words out. She put a clenched fist over her mouth, trying desperately to keep her panic inside.

"Alex, come on. Greg and Tilly are here. You need to—"

"Can't you see she's terrified?"

Greg's voice cut through, silencing Dr Beasley's questioning. Alex took in a little sobbing breath of relief at his defense. And at the fact that she now had a name for her feelings: _fear_.

"Is that true Alex?" Dr Beasley said after a pause. "Are you scared?"

"Of course she's scared." His voice held barely contained contempt.

"What are you scared of Alex?"

"I would think that was patently obvious," Greg answered for her.

Alex heard shuffling, it sounded like he was repositioning the baby over a different shoulder.

Without waiting for the psychiatrist to intervene, he continued with his diagnosis. "She had a husband and a baby that were taken away from her – an event that had such huge ramifications for her, she ended up in a dissociative state. Now we're pushing her to accept the same situation all over again. It's stupid and it's clear she's in no way capable of handling this. I should never have come and I should never have brought Tilly. I'm just glad she'll be too young to remember it."

She heard the sound of him getting to his feet and a rummaging that indicated he was about to take the baby away.

"Wait," Alex managed to whisper. She opened her eyes, focusing on the floor again at first, then, slowly, scanning upwards. He was standing – she'd forgotten he was so tall – and a little blue-cotton-clad bundle rested in his elbow. His eyes pierced her, as they always had, that ice blue cutting through her every thought, seeing to the heart of her.

The whole room crawled to a standstill, even the motes of dust stopped dancing.

Alex stood, slowly, feeling shaky on her feet, taking one careful step and then another until she stood in front of him. She kept her eyes on his face the whole time, holding his gaze, noting the emotions that flickered through them: wariness, fear, exhaustion, hope and grief.

After what felt like an eon, she lowered her eyes to look down at the baby he held. Tilly's eyes were closed tightly, one fist bunched up near her mouth. Her other hand stuck out haphazardly, fingers spread wide. She looked so much like him, Alex felt a shock of recognition. "She's just like you," she whispered.

"Don't worry, it won't last. Babies are genetically pre-determined to look like their father in their first year of life so that we know they're ours. In the animal world that means the male protects them. In humans it means we pay for them."

She heard the tone that belied the flippancy of his words and Alex couldn't help a small, fragile little laugh. "I'm sure it's all about the money," she said, trying hard for a lightness she didn't feel.

"Damn right."

For a while Alex just stood there, staring at the baby. She couldn't believe how instantly her heart recognized their connection. Something unexplainable, unpredictable and totally inescapable. No matter how much she wanted to avoid it, there was no getting away from this.

_She'd jumped. _

"Do you want to hold her?"

Alex nodded, not trusting her voice.

As soon as the baby was in her arms, Alex knew she had to sit down. She was overwhelmed by vertigo.

_She'd fallen. _

He saw her sway and put an arm around her shoulders, helping her into the chair.

_He'd caught her._

"Thanks," she muttered, tearing her eyes away from the baby to look up at him briefly. Then her eyes went back to Tilly, unable to bear not to look at her. Her perfect pout. Long eyelashes. A gingery-brown wisp of hair over her head.

It wasn't until his finger reached out to wipe her cheek that Alex was aware of the tears streaming down her face. She sniffed, trying to hold them back. "Sorry," she muttered. She meant about crying, but she knew the word needed to mean more than that. Looking up she found he was leaning on the arm of the chair, looking over her; looking over them both.

She met his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm sorry for everything."

"Me too," he said simply.

She felt his arm go around the back of her chair and she leaned into it, leaned into him. He bent lower until the three of them were huddled together.

"I want to fix this," Alex whispered, forgetting her surroundings, forgetting that there was a psychiatrist still watching. "I want to fix myself and be who you and Tilly need me to be. Will you help? Will you give me just a little more time?" She looked up and pleaded, hoping those blue eyes would show her the kindness and love and warmth that she knew they were capable of.

"How much time?" he asked.

Alex tried not to be hurt and tried to remember that he was a practical man. He wasn't going to fall into a mushy heap just because she'd cried and apologized and finally admitted she wanted to be part of his and their daughter's life. She shook her head slightly. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "Not too long, I hope."

He stared at her a while, and Alex wished she could see inside him, see how those wheels inside that head of his were turning.

"Okay," he said eventually. "But you'd better start pulling your weight. Starting now. Your daughter stinks."

Alex gave a small laugh. "I can do that."

"Good." He got up from where he was perched on the arm of her chair and reached down into the baby carrier, picking up a disposable diaper that he lobbed over to her.

Alex grabbed the baby blanket from the carrier and spread it out on the floor, lay the baby down and hitched up her dress to take off the smelly diaper. She never imaged such a task would ever fill her with joy, but this time it did. She did it easily, knowing how to without thinking about why. Tilly opened her eyes but didn't cry, just watched with curiosity and a slight frown as this person she'd never met attended to her. The look was pure Greg House.

After she was done, Dr Beasley interrupted, bringing the session to a close. "This has been a great afternoon, for both of you. And for me too, if you don't mind me saying," she added.

Alex was surprised to note that Dr Beasley looked almost close to tears.

"I think we should finish there." Dr Beasley turned to House. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming back tomorrow with Tilly again and Alex can continue to get to know her?"

"Sure." House took Tilly from Alex's arms and Alex reluctantly let her go. She didn't want to this to end and yet at the same time she could feel a strange melancholy settling over her. The dark shadow of an enemy that had yet to come out of the gloom.

There was an awkward moment where Alex wondered if Greg might lean in to kiss or hug her and she wondered how she might feel if he did. Because while her feelings about Tilly were definitive, where that left the two of them was still uncertain.

"_Merci_, Greg," she said softly, instead.

He nodded once and then turned and, after strapping the baby in, walked out without saying another word.

"I'm so proud of you, Alex," Dr Beasley said after the door had closed.

Alex grimaced. _Proud_ wasn't the right word. She'd made progress, yes. But there was still something that wasn't right. She just wished she knew what it was.

-

* * *

-

For the next week and a half, House made a daily trip to Mayfield with Tilly. Tilly was becoming more and more familiar with Alex and had begun smiling for real.

Much to Cuddy's surprise, House had called in his paternity leave entitlements to enable him to work half-days, giving him the afternoons to make the trek to Mayfield. He had handled a couple of conference calls with his team while in the car, but thankfully things had been really slow on the patient front. He wondered if this was the universe's way of helping him out – the first helping hand he'd ever received from any kind of deity, he cynically thought.

"I think she should come home soon," House said, talking to Dr Beasley one afternoon as she walked with him through the foyer. The first snow of winter lay on the ground outside and the chill in the air foretold a cold season to come. Christmas was just a few weeks away and although the holiday had never meant anything to House before except a dutiful phone call to his parents – just his mother this year, he acknowledged with a twinge of feeling – this year it seemed different. The idea that Alex might be home, that they might wake up on Christmas morning together and play Santa for their little girl . . . It all seemed so boring and domestic and ordinary . . . and somehow _imperative_. House only wished he'd been smart enough to discover all this twenty years earlier.

"I'm not sure she's ready, House."

"I am, and I know her better." House was relieved to discover that the more time he spent with Alex the more he realized that the woman he'd grown to love, Princess Alexandra, and the woman she was now, Alex Blake, were one and the same. From the corner of his eye, he'd even caught her looking at him every now and then, a look that reminded him of how quickly they'd fallen for each other and reinforced how much he wanted that back again.

Dr Beasley shook her head and they paused at the doors. "Until she talks about the trauma, I can't in all conscience release her."

"But you've seen her – she seems fine! She's bonding with Tilly, she's clear that her memories of Princess Alexandra were false."

"But Dr House, don't you see? If she doesn't process the trauma, she's still just as susceptible to new delusional episodes as she was after it happened. What about the first time Tilly get sick and cries all night? Or you have a patient and are away for days at a time? How do you think she'll cope under that kind of stress?"

House sighed. She had a point, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. "It doesn't matter."

Dr Beasley gave him an infuriatingly patient smile. "I know you want your family back together, Dr House, and I know I'd feel the same way if I was in your position. But Alex is still holding on to the pain of her family's death. She hasn't even mentioned her son, Jack, even though it's clear that caring for Tilly reminds her of him. I think that makes her vulnerable. Until we can get her to talk about it, to remember it and process it, I can't see how I could give her a clean bill of health. That's going to take time and we're going to have to give her as much of that as she needs."

_Time_. House thought he'd shown remarkable patience over the past weeks. Especially given that Wilson was the only other person who knew what was really going on. He thought he understood now one of the reasons Cuddy had originally involved him in her fertility treatments. Parenthood – at any stage – was something you needed to share. And he'd had very little support. Of course he had Maria and Kelly, but that wasn't the kind of support he meant.

"Sometimes it's healthy to block out memories," House tried a different tack. "When things hurt too much to think about or are going to cause pain, our brain takes the defensive move of blocking them out. It's self-preservation."

Dr Beasley gave him a penetrating look that soon had him shuffling his feet.

Whether disturbed by the rocking of her car seat as House shifted around, or the sudden uncomfortable atmosphere around her, Tilly began to cry.

"Saved by the baby," House muttered. "And that's four words I never thought I'd use in the same sentence."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Dr Beasley said. "And don't think that means you're off the hook. I can see that there's plenty there we need to talk about."

House walked off without answering, heading out to the car. He carefully negotiated his cane, the crying baby, and icy sidewalks, hoping that the movement of the car would settle her down again. He liked that his daughter enjoyed being in vehicles. Of course he hadn't been able to take her on the motorbike, but he figured he'd do so as soon as possible. New Jersey law didn't have any age restrictions on motorbike passengers, but even he doubted the wisdom of taking a six-week old for a spin.

"We have to get Mommy to talk," House said to Tilly as he fitted the car seat into the dock in the back. "So she can come home and change your diapers and cook Daddy's dinner."

House wasn't prepared to play by Dr Beasley's schedule – he couldn't keep going like this much longer. He was going to make it happen soon, one way or another.

He smiled and shook his head as a white Camry pulled out and followed him into the traffic.

-

* * *

**A/N:** After House yells at her, Alex recites a paragraph from Rimbaud's _Delirium I: The Foolish Virgin_, from _A Season in Hell_,1873. She only says a few lines from it, but the English translation of the full passage she's quoting is: _"I am a slave of the Infernal Bridegroom, the one who seduced the foolish virgins. That's exactly the devil he is. He's no phantom, he's no ghost. But I, who have lost my wits, damned and dead to the world – no one will be able to kill me! How can I describe him to you! I can't even talk anymore. I'm all dressed in mourning, I'm crying, I'm afraid. Please, dear Lord, a little fresh air, if you don't mind, please!"_


	20. Chapter 20

House was counting. It had been three weeks since Alex had first broken her silence after the birth. Another two weeks since she'd met Tilly. Two weeks filled by the three of them – plus Dr Beasley – sitting around in an office pretending to talk about things that were important. Not that Tilly contributed much to the conversation except gurgles, farts and the occasional crying jag.

Christmas was two and a half weeks away, House's own personal deadline to have everything, well, _fixed_.

Alex seemed strong today, taking Tilly from him straight away. She noticed a tiny scratch on the baby's cheek and quizzed him about it, anxious enough to annoy him. "Christ, Alex, she did it to herself," he growled. Then he remembered how he'd longed for her to even look at her child, let alone be worried about her.

"You need to cut her fingernails," Alex said, not in the least put off by his snarl. "I'll do it if you get me some scissors."

"Yeah, like I carry scissors around with me."

"Don't you have a diaper bag? There might be some in there."

"There are diapers in the diaper bag," House said sarcastically.

"You should have a kit of things you might need. Scissors, wipes, cotton balls."

"Yeah, right. Like I've got time to organize that shit. Or the energy to carry it around with me."

"Greg, you need to—"

"Let's deal with Tilly's fingernails later," Dr Beasley interrupted diplomatically.

House smiled internally. Having a domestic spat with Alex felt wonderful. Sublimely, ridiculously, wonderful.

_It was time. _

He took Tilly from Alex's arms and put her back in her carrier. He sat down in the chair opposite Alex, full of purpose.

Dr Beasley began to speak, but House quickly interrupted. "Alex, I want to tell you about the night Kevin and Jack died."

"What?" Dr Beasley spun around to face him, but House only had eyes for Alex. She froze, her expression changing in an instant from one of parental concern and irritation to absolute, stark terror.

"Dr House, I don't think—" Dr Beasley began.

"Alex," House interrupted again. "I have a theory about what happened that night." He heard Dr Beasley take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. But she said nothing further, so he continued. "I think those men that came into the apartment that night, they infected you."

She shook her head violently. "No, they didn't touch me like that!" she yelled, her voice suddenly loud in the quiet room. She took in a deep, shuddering breath and then let it out. "They didn't rape me," she said, more reasonably. "They hit me, but they didn't do to me what they did to my mother."

"That's not what I mean."

"They didn't touch me that way," Alex stubbornly repeated, refusing to look at either him or Dr Beasley.

"Alex, look at me." House reached over and put his hands each side of Alex's jaw and turned her to face him, holding her so she couldn't look away. "They infected you. They left you with something inside. And it's festering. I studied infectious diseases. I know how they work. When you have an infection, sometimes, if you don't do anything, the body heals itself. Its antibodies and natural defenses defeat the invader. But other times, if you don't do anything about it, it festers. It festers and it grows and it builds up inside you until it bursts."

"No."

"Yes. It's inside you. The only way to heal is to let it out."

Alex was crying silently now, tears rolling down her cheeks, trickling over his hands. "No. Don't make me," she pleaded. "Everything was going so well . . ."

"I know it hurts sweetheart." Although he knew this was the right thing to do, House felt like his own heart was being ripped out through a hole in his chest. Seeing Alex's pain, knowing that he was pushing her, that he was causing it, was enough to make him falter. And yet his dogged determination to finish, to solve the puzzle, to see things through to the end, no matter what the outcome, meant he couldn't walk away. Not when it might mean Alex would come back to him. When it might mean Tilly would have a mother.

"I can't. I can't do it."

House had a sudden flashback. He was lying in a hospital bed and Stacy was begging him to agree to amputation. He couldn't do it. He'd refused, just like Alex was refusing now. He didn't want to lose the life he'd had, even though that's exactly what had happened anyway. He realized now that, if nothing else, all he had got from it was learning. He knew now, that if Alex didn't agree, she'd lose the life she thought she was protecting. Because there was no going back.

"Yes you can. You're brave, Alex. Before you came into Mayfield – do you remember what you said to me in the bedroom?"

Alex shook her head within his grip.

"We were talking about the fact that you weren't Princess Alexandra, that Princess Alexandra didn't exist anymore. You said, 'you loved her, so you killed her'. You were right."

Alex eyes lifted and met his for a moment. He pressed the advantage. "I loved you so much I destroyed the life we had together." Logically he knew that life could never have continued anyway, but that wasn't the point he was trying to make. "If you love me, you'll do this. You'll let me kill the final remaining threads that keep Princess Alexandra hanging over you."

House, his hands still on her face, felt her throat clench as she swallowed hard. "You survived the worst thing that could happen to someone. You can survive this," he encouraged.

"I don't want to." Her breath came shallowly.

"Yeah. I know." His own breath caught.

She was silent for a long time and then finally, haltingly, she began to speak. "They . . . they tied up Kevin."

House closed his eyes for a moment. _Did he really want to hear this?_ No. He didn't. But she had to say it. And there was no one else to listen. A psychiatrist's ears weren't enough.

"Go on," he said, opening his eyes again and meeting her red-rimmed, bloodshot chocolate ones.

"He didn't come to pick me up at the airport." She swallowed back a sob.

House let his hands fall away from her cheeks. Instead he entwined her fingers with his and sat back a little, giving her more space. He forgot that Dr Beasley still sat silently in her chair in the corner, watching.

"So I caught a cab, figuring there must have been a mix up or he'd been delayed somehow. I'd met with the funeral directors at the airport, so _Maman_ . . . so that had all been organized. When I got home . . ." She stumbled to a halt and shook off one of his hands so she could take a drink from the glass of water next to her, closing her eyes for a moment before she continued.

"I went inside and it took a few seconds before I saw them. Kevin was in a chair with those plastic ties around his wrists and ankles. There were two men, both of them had Argentinean accents. Jack was lying on the sofa, asleep." She snorted a little laugh, seeming lost in her story now. "I couldn't believe he was sleeping through all of that – but he was such a good little baby, he loved to sleep.

"Before I could do anything, they grabbed me and tied me up too, on the other side of the room to Kevin. They wanted information from me, stuff about my father, things I didn't know. They told me there would be punishments for disobeying, but how could I obey when I didn't know?" she pleaded. House just nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

"They told me Papa had double-crossed them, that he owed them, that they were getting revenge. They hit me, but I didn't know –_ I didn't know!_ – so I couldn't give them what they wanted. When I didn't answer, one of them . . . one of them put the gun to Kevin's head. The bang wasn't loud, like it is in the movies. There was a red spray . . ." Alex gagged, but held it in, taking a few deep breaths before continuing. "And then he just slumped in the chair." Alex fell silent, looking inward, obviously revisiting that horrible sight in her mind's eye.

"Keep going, Alex," Dr Beasley said after she'd been quiet for almost a minute.

Alex nodded slowly. "They kept asking me for information, demanding to know something about a secret shipment. And then they kept arguing with each other about what to do next.

"Jack woke up and started crying. I told them he was hungry, so they untied my hands and gave him to me. I fed him, because the crying was making them angrier. For a while they seemed to forget about us, they were arguing about what to do next. Something hadn't turned out the way they thought it would, but they didn't say what. Then they argued about what to do with me and Jack. One of them wanted to kill both of us, the other said I should be left alive as a hostage, but that it was too much bother to have Jack around. They were talking about sending photos to my father. They agreed to that plan, but then they started arguing over who would kill my beautiful little . . ." She trailed off.

House's fists clenched around Alex's fingers. Even cold-blooded murderers had issues with killing babies, it seemed. _Poor guys_.

Alex had closed her eyes and her head was bowed. House, who had been so desperate to make this happen, regretted ever starting the conversation. If he had to be a single parent forever and Alex had to be in the nuthouse forever, it might just be worth it not to have to watch another person go through this emotional pain. He was about to let her off the hook, to tell her she didn't have to say anything more when Dr Beasley's soft voice broke the silence.

"What happened to Jack, Alex?"

Alex didn't move, but when her voice came out it sounded flat, as if she were reciting facts from a sheet of paper. "They decided they couldn't do it using their guns. They took him from me and . . . Jack started crying. It made them angry. So they took him into the bathroom and put him in the bath and they turned on the taps and left him in there. They closed the door, but I could still hear him crying. And then after a while . . . the water kept running but . . . he wasn't crying anymore. He was so little, he couldn't . . ."

_Bath._

The word she kept repeating in her nightmares.

House felt a wave of nausea envelop him. Not just at what Alex had just described, but at the realization that he was bathing Tilly in the very same bath that had taken her half-brother's life. First thing he was going to do when he got back to Princeton was find a new apartment. If Alex ever did recover enough to be discharged, he knew he could never make her go into that place again. And even though it had never bothered him before, now that he knew the details he knew he couldn't sleep there again.

"But you were still alive, Alex," Dr Beasley prompted. House was glad for the psychiatrist's presence because he had no logic left to help him see through this process. "What happened next?" she asked.

"These other two men arrived – they kicked in the door. They said my father had sent them. There was fighting and gun shots, but then someone must have called the police, because there were sirens and they all . . . left. They ran out and left me. Then there were police and FBI in black bullet-proof vests and someone was untying me and asking me questions. They called an ambulance for Kevin, but I knew it was too late. I kept screaming at them to check the bathroom – I kept yelling, 'The bath! Check the bath!' – and the woman who did it, she went in and then came out and she threw up on the floor. So I knew it was too late for Jack, too. And I was alone. Then I was in the hospital and people were stitching me up and telling me I was safe."

There was a long moment of silence then, and no one, not even the psychiatrist, seemed ready to break it.

Eventually Alex took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. "The doctors gave me drugs to sleep and I had some bruises and cuts from the men when the men . . ." She sniffed and then grabbed a handful of Kleenex and blew her nose before continuing. "My father arrived, he helped me to organize the funeral. He told me that the people who'd done it had been . . . That he'd dealt with them."

House could just imagine what "dealing with" the murderers of his family meant to an Argentinean gangster.

"And then my father left and I remember sitting in a park after one of the sessions with the psychiatrist I was supposed to see. I grabbed my purse and started reading the book I'd bought at the airport. It was one of those trashy romance ones, you know, those ones I like" she glanced quickly at House, "about a princess who was hiding from her family. I remember thinking, '_Wouldn't it be nice to be a princess? To escape and have a different life, leave everything behind?_'. I don't remember consciously deciding to do that, but after that day I was sure that I was Princess Alexandra."

House's rational side surfaced. "And no one noticed that you'd become delusional?"

"I didn't tell anyone I was a princess, not even you," Alex pointed out. "That was my secret that I was hiding. Besides – no one ever asked about my past. When something like that happens – people don't know what to say. They don't know how to talk about it. So they don't. They don't talk about anything except the weather and movies and things that don't really matter. So it never came up."

House nodded. He'd experienced something similar after the infarction. _Awkward subject?_ Avoid it.

"Alex, that's was very courageous of you," Dr Beasley praised. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Alex said.

"Understandably."

"And nauseous."

"Very understandably," muttered House.

"Let's get you back to your room. I think some rest would be good for you now. Let's talk more about this tomorrow."

Alex looked exhausted by the suggestion that there was still more talking to do, but she nodded. "Can I . . ." she halted, looking down at the floor. Then she looked up and the grief and hollowness in her eyes made House's heart ache. "Can I hold Tilly for a minute?"

"Sure." House hurried to grab the little girl and hand her over.

Alex held Tilly gently, but protectively, in a way that would make it impossible for anyone to take the baby from her arms. She bent her head and whispered, some words in English, some in French. House couldn't hear most of what she said, but the one sentence he could make out was a goal House instantly knew he shared.

"_I'll never let anything happen to you._"

-

* * *

-

A week later, one week before Christmas, House finally heard the words he'd been waiting for. He was in his office when his phone rang.

"Dr House? I'm glad I caught you. I think Alex is ready to come home, as long as she continues her treatment on an out-patient basis."

Though he'd longed for those words for what felt like forever, when he heard them his instant reaction was trepidation. _Home._ What was home for Alex anyway? It couldn't be the apartment where her family was killed. Was it anywhere he and Tilly lived – the new house he'd moved them to? Wherever, so to speak, she lay her hat? As with any pronouncement that made him feel uncomfortable, House immediately countered with a quip. "Oh, yeah? You stuck a fork in her and decided she's done?"

Dr Beasley sounded confused. "I thought you were anxious for Alex to be released?"

House didn't answer.

"We'll still need to maintain regular visits with me and I think we should alternate, with you attending every second one and then gradually tapering off to less frequently. Once Alex is out in the real world with you she will probably need some therapy time alone."

"You mean to process all the horrible things I'm going to say to her?"

"_Are_ you going to say horrible things to her?"

House snorted. "I did that before too, so it's not like she's not used to it."

"Right." Dr Beasley sounded as if she was already regretting her decision.

"When?" House asked, cutting to the chase.

"Well, you can take her with you this afternoon if you want. I know that might be short notice, but—"

"Fine." House was good at putting things off – important, emotional things, anyway. But even though he was suddenly nervous about it, the sense of urgency he'd felt around Alex's release hadn't dissipated. Each day Tilly was growing more and more into a little person and he needed to share that with someone. Other than the hired help.

And Christmas was only a week away.

"Dr House? You're going to need to be sensitive to Alex's needs for a while. She'll find it difficult to cope with stressful situations, and she'll probably find it hard initially to settle in. And . . . I know we've not really discussed this in therapy, but I want to remind you that you have to be prepared to take some time with your, uh, _personal_ relationship with Alex. You will need to be patient, she might want—"

"She won't go down on me the minute we leave the car park, you mean?"

"I wouldn't have put it so directly," Dr Beasley said drily, "but yes, that's the general gist."

"We'll work it out," he said, feeling confident that they would. _Tonight he might even be getting laid! _

He hung up, and his initial nervousness faded into a sense of relief. Things would be back to normal soon.

A _new_ normal, sure, but a normal he could cope with.

House sat back and reflected on the past week since Alex had shared the story of her trauma. He was glad that he'd insisted on relocating so fast. He, Tilly and their little entourage were still settling in to the new house he'd found just a few minutes' drive from the hospital, but so far everything was going pretty well.

Thanks to a ridiculously expensive packing and moving service, the move had been reasonably smooth – perhaps because they'd all had practice from the last time. The only thing House supervised himself was the packing and unpacking of the musical instruments. He'd come home in the middle of the day – in the midst of the moving madness – driving Maria up the wall by interrupting all her plans and diverting everyone's attention to the piano and exactly where the guitars would hang on the wall.

That had been as much of the process as he'd wanted to be involved in, but by simply being there he found himself being roped into things. No one asked him to carry anything – the cane and, often, Tilly, in his arms seemed to warn them off. But he was constantly being asked to make decisions – _where does this go, where do you want that?_

The final straw was when a huge baby-faced black guy in blue coveralls towered over him, demanding to know where House wanted his phone installed. The guy looked more like a pro wrestler than a telephone installation expert, and clearly had the IQ to go with it, because how hard was it to know where phones should be installed? After barking an order to put one in the bedroom, one in the study and one in the living room and _how about inserting one rectally after he was finished with all that_, House threw up his hands in horror and walked out.

When he returned later that evening, it was sort of like walking into a parallel world, everything almost the same, but different. Just filled with a hassled-looking Maria and Kelly sniping at each other as the last of the boxes were unpacked. And the phones had been installed in the bedroom, the study and right next to the sofa, just where House wanted them.

The major side-effect of the move had been an unsettled baby for the first couple of nights, out of sorts at the disruption to her routine and familiar surroundings. Oh, and the cost. But House was getting used to the fact that he'd spent more money in the past two months than he'd spent on himself in his entire life. He'd actually had to cash in one share portfolio to clear the debt on his credit card – for the first time ever.

House let out a long breath. But now it didn't matter. The end was in sight.

-

* * *

**A/N:** Hi all, hope you had a wonderful festive celebration. I know this isn't exactly a happy, holiday season chapter, but I promise one of those is on the way! I'm just about finished writing this story and it will finish at around Chapter 27 or 28, I'm not quite sure yet, so there is still some story yet to be told. Thank you all for your lovely support.


	21. Chapter 21

Alex felt completely unsettled once she was outside of Mayfield. She wondered if it had been a mistake, if she'd been released too early. She never thought she'd ever wish to return to the dull, grey-walled rooms of the institution, but all of a sudden they felt like a haven.

It wasn't just the sudden change into an unregimented existence or the demands of instant full-time parenthood – even though either Maria, Kelly or Greg were there to help most of the time. There was something more. A yawning sense of displacement.

_Where did she belong?_

_Was this really her life?_

Greg had moved himself and Tilly to a small house near the hospital and told her that her old place had been rented out. She didn't want to go back there, not now that all her memories of what had happened there had returned, but she yearned for something familiar. Nothing was the same anymore, _nothing_. Not even herself.

Greg mentioned that he'd kept her personal papers – photos, letters, that kind of thing – but they were packed in boxes in the garage. She thought about searching them out, but it was too cold and too daunting to go unpack them.

The new house was nice, there was no denying that. Comfortable, spacious, nicely decorated. But it didn't feel like home.

She wondered if anywhere ever would.

The child of a nomad, Alex was used to change – she and her mother had always been on the move. They hadn't lived anywhere more than a year or two. Even boarding school in England had only been for two years before she'd returned to Europe. Meeting and marrying Kevin had been the end of that lifestyle and Alex had welcomed it. She'd welcomed the chance to grow roots, to get settled.

Perhaps she just needed to give this time, as Dr Beasley had suggested when Alex had brought up her anxiety around the topic. Perhaps this would _become_ home.

But as the darkness deepened on her first night of freedom, another, more awkward problem emerged.

Tilly had been put to bed and Kelly had gone home.

Greg was watching television and reading a journal.

It was just the two of them. For the first time.

Alex kept herself busy with chores that didn't need doing – Maria was an excellent housekeeper – but she couldn't bring herself to just sit there next to him calmly watching TV while she was riddled with an anxiety that made it feel as if ants were crawling over her skin.

_What did he expect?_

Her inspection of the house had revealed four bedrooms – a main bedroom that he obviously slept in, Tilly's room, one room that had been turned into an office-cum-den, and a fourth, clearly spare room, with a made-up bed. Her pre-Mayfield clothes and toiletries and other personal things had been put into his room, which of course was perfectly normal.

She just didn't know if she was ready for that yet.

His reaction to her hesitation was the big unknown.

But he just sat and read and ignored her fidgeting. Then, about an hour after Alex had begun rearranging the CDs into alphabetical order, he yawned and stretched with exaggerated effort. "I'm going to bed." He stood up and looked over to where she crouched on the floor surrounded by stacks of CD cases. "You can sleep in the spare room if you want," he added dismissively, waving a hand in that general direction before limping off to his room.

She knew it was his way – putting it out there before she had the chance to reject him first. Making it his idea.

This time she was grateful.

"_Merci_," she said, not looking at him, not sure if he heard her before he disappeared down the hallway.

Lying in the cold bed hours later, unable to sleep, Alex wondered if her life could ever be _normal_ again. She wanted it to be like it had been before, with Kevin and Jack, but Greg wasn't Kevin and Tilly wasn't Jack, and it wasn't fair to expect them to be. She loved Tilly, of that she was sure. She loved Greg too, but what that meant she was far from sure.

She _did_ miss him.

Hugging the pillow, she imagined – not for the first time – lying in bed with him again. That musky, sandalwood scent of his; the heavy strength of his arm lying across her; the occasional snore that happened when he was very tired. Not to mention _arts de l'amour_. It had been seven weeks since Tilly's birth and Alex's body felt ready. But her mind didn't.

He'd already been so patient. She wondered how long he would wait.

-

* * *

-

The week leading up to Christmas passed quickly and in establishing a daily routine, some of Alex's discomfort subsided. There was a subtle reassurance to be gained from mundane activities like grocery shopping and laundry and caring for an infant. She'd even done a little cooking, much to Maria's indignation.

Tilly was a beautiful baby and despite the hesitations she'd discussed at length in her continuing regular sessions with Dr Beasley, Alex found no problems adjusting to being a mother again. She still had Kelly and Maria's help, but both were friendly, easy-going women (as long as she stayed out of the kitchen) and she didn't mind their presence. It was redundant for them both to be there – Alex wanted to take care of Tilly so neither of them had that much to do, but Alex didn't yet fully trust herself and until then, it felt safer to have at least one other person around most of the time. Besides which, as much as it helped to settle her nerves, Alex had never been a fan of housework.

After that first night, Greg wasn't home much. He had a patient, one of those ones that kept him at the hospital late – one night he didn't even come home. Alex worried, as she always did, but in some part of her mind she was pleased by it. It meant he trusted her enough to leave Tilly in her care all night; it meant he was treating her like everything was normal. It wasn't – not by a long shot – but it was as good as she was capable of, for now.

On December twenty-third he called in the late afternoon.

"What's Maria cooked for dinner?" he asked without saying hello; his usual style.

"I cooked today," Alex said proudly. "Chicken and leek pie."

"I'll be home late. Around midnight. Save me some." _Click._

Alex felt a tickle in her belly, a fast-forming knot of nerves and anticipation. It was like he'd declared something, an intention, a deadline.

Tonight, she decided, they would eat together and . . . see what that led to.

As the afternoon faded into evening, her knot intensified. It was equal parts excitement and dread, wanting it to happen at the same time as she didn't – all the while not even really sure what "it" was. As much as she didn't want to imbue the night with too much gravitas, she took the opportunity while Kelly was still around to have a long shower, washing her hair and shaving her legs. She dressed with care; while her leftover baby weight meant many of her clothes still didn't fit, she found a pair of jeans and a soft cashmere sweater that made her feel casually sexy. Her blow-dried hair behaved for once, sitting in long waves over her shoulders. She left it out instead of tying it back as she usually did.

Kelly gave her a knowing look as she said good bye.

Alex tried to calm her nerves by lying on the sofa and reading Rimbaud, which still had the ability to transport her into a world of words. Feeling like Cinderella, she couldn't resist the distraction of watching the clock hands wind their way to midnight, shooting out of her skin when the scrape of the key came in the door at eleven-thirty.

"You're early," she said as soon as he walked in.

He looked surprised and Alex wished she could bite back the words. They'd tumbled out of her in shock, but they sounded defensive; wrong.

"Gotta take a break when I can," he said eventually, shrugging out of his heavy winter pea coat. "This dude's dying all over the place."

"Are you hungry?" Alex asked, trying to be more conciliatory.

"Starved."

She got up and headed into the kitchen, immediately fussing around to fix them both plates. "Do you want wine or whisky?" she asked over her shoulder, noting he'd followed her. He stood just inside the room, leaning against the wall, observing her in that way he did.

"What does the chef recommend?" he asked.

"I had a glass of Sancerre earlier, I think that would go nicely."

"Sounds good. Have you eaten?"

She risked a glance his way as she pulled the wine from the refrigerator. "No. I thought we might eat together."

He nodded, but his expression remained impassive.

She poured them both a glass of wine and handed his over. "It'll only be a minute, I just have to reheat it."

"Fine." He took a seat at the artfully battered, French-provincial style white-washed table that took up a large corner of the kitchen. Falling into the chair with a heavy sigh he took a long drink of wine.

"Tilly was good today," Alex said, nervously filling the silence with chatter about the baby. The whole situation had an edge of unreality to it, while at the same time she knew it was far from unusual. In fact, it was as familiar to her as the back of her hand. She'd lost count of the number of times he'd come home at some odd hour, obsessed by the case he was working on, so driven he'd forgotten to eat. She had fed him, comforted him, and never worried about the fact that he hardly spoke. She'd learned his process: if he needed to _talk_ it through, he stayed at the hospital where he had other doctors to bounce ideas off; if he needed to _think_ it through, he came home and was silent.

Putting two plates down on the table she'd already set with cutlery, Alex took a seat at right-angles to him.

"What's the green stuff?" he asked.

"Thyme. And asparagus." It must have been acceptable because without further comment he dug in and ate voraciously.

Alex ate too, picking at her meal like a bird. She hadn't eaten earlier, deliberately waiting for him, but she had no appetite.

He ate in silence, methodically cleaning his plate. When it was empty he sat back with his wine glass and arched his back in a stretch.

"That was good," he said and then burped.

"If you didn't eat so fast, you wouldn't get indigestion," Alex chided lightly.

"Stop cooking such delicious meals then," he replied with a smile.

Alex smiled back and then ducked her head to avoid the growing warmth of their shared gaze. "How's your patient?" she asked, knowing that topic was less likely to lead to him smiling in a way that made her stomach flip over.

He shrugged and the weariness she'd noted when he first walked in resettled over him. "Not great. I'm close to something, I just don't know what."

He looked sad. Most of his colleagues would never know how _human_ he was, how much every life in his hands weighed him down. Without conscious intention, Alex reached out and gently traced his temple with her fingertips, smoothing the creases that ran from the corners of his eyes. "You look tired."

His gaze was piercing as it met hers, and Alex was aware that it was the first time since Mayfield that they'd touched like this. Her instinct was to draw back, to retreat from whatever she'd accidentally initiated. But as if he could read her mind, he reached up and took her hand, pressing it against his face more fully.

"I am tired," he said. "And I might not have much time."

A thousand butterflies burst from their cocoons inside her stomach._ What did that mean?_

He brought her hand around to his mouth and pressed a kiss into her palm.

Alex's heart jumped against her ribs and her stomach twisted. Her whole body began to tremble as it sometimes did when they made love, only this time she couldn't differentiate whether it was fear or excitement.

"Greg, I—"

The heated look his in eyes shuttered down and he gave her a short nod. "I know." He put her hand down on the table with exaggerated care. As soon as he was no longer touching her Alex's skin felt chilled even though the room was warm.

Was he not interested? No, that wasn't it. But her nervousness put him off, she could see that.

_Why was she so nervous? What did it matter? _She'd made love to this man more times and in more ways than she could count. Why, now, was it like everything was new? All this old well-explored territory suddenly undiscovered again? She knew him intimately. His nipples weren't all that sensitive, but brushing her fingers over his inner thighs made him breakout in goose bumps. He had ticklish feet and didn't like her touching them. If he was close to orgasm, digging her fingernails into his back or pressing her tongue against the sensitive underside of his penis would send him over the edge. She knew him, and he knew her. Intimately. He knew that she was embarrassed about the size of her thighs and insisted he didn't even notice. Had a way of kissing her that made her panties get wet, just like in an erotic story. Did this little trick with his fingers that reached a place no one ever had before, sending shivers through her whole body.

Just thinking about that made her shudder.

They knew each other and yet they didn't. Not anymore.

Everything was new again.

He sat there, sipping his wine and looking off into the distance. He was trying so hard. He wasn't pushing. Even though persistence was in his very DNA.

Quickly, before she could think too much about it, Alex rose from her chair and leaned over him. Clumsy in her haste, she almost missed his mouth as she pressed her lips to his. It was an awkward kiss, closed lipped and cold, and when she pulled back Alex noted his eyes were still open.

"_Merde_," she swore under her breath. "Sorry, that was not good." She felt every inch of her skin blush with acute embarrassment.

"You took me by surprise."

"I wanted to do it before I lost my nerve."

He snorted. "Flattering."

The flush flaming across her cheeks deepened. "That's not what I meant, I—"

"Yeah, I get it."

Alex fumbled for her glass of wine and drained it, willing it to cool her down, for it to somehow quell the burning agony that had begun to ache in her chest.

She'd ruined everything.

"Do you think Mayfield destroyed your kissing abilities?" he asked, his voice casual, as if they were discussing the weather.

"What?"

"Do you think being in Mayfield destroyed your kissing abilities?" he repeated. "I seem to remember you were reasonably good at it before."

_Why was he going on about it? _Alex writhed with embarrassment. It had been a mistake. Why couldn't he just drop it?

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"You should try again, just to be sure."

_What? Go through that mortifying experience again? No way. _She shook her head and reached over to take his plate, stacking it on top of hers. "I think I will go to bed now. I'm tired."

Alex rose from the table and took the dishes to the sink, turning the taps on full. She rinsed the plates and swirled water in her wineglass, deliberately taking a long time with the tasks. Her hope was that by the time she'd finished, he'd be gone.

_You idiot,_ she railed at herself. _Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage_. _You have the brain of a cheese sandwich. _

She turned around, wet plates in her hand, about to load them into the dishwasher, when she bumped into a hard male chest. He'd walked up right behind her and over the sound of rushing water and her own inner turmoil, she hadn't noticed.

Alex tilted her head up slowly, and when she met his eyes her heart skipped a beat. Without giving her time to think, he put a hand to her cheek to hold her in place and lowered his head.

Alex's eyes drifted closed as his lips nibbled hers, moving against her mouth with feather-light touches, wordlessly encouraging her to surrender. She reached behind herself to set the plates back on the counter, carefully, so that the kiss was not disrupted.

His mouth moved over hers, learning her all over again, tasting her gently.

_Everything was new again. _

Suddenly Alex realized that that didn't have to be a bad thing.

Her lips parted with a sigh and as if that was the signal he'd been waiting for, he took a step forward, pressing her between his body and the kitchen counter. The kiss deepened, his tongue tasting her properly, and Alex heard a small whimper escape from the back of her throat. Her hands wound around his back instinctively, one rising to the nape of his neck to hold him to her. One of his hands rose to her hair, winding the thick length of it around his fingers. He pulled gently to tilt her head back further, opening her to him.

After leisurely exploring her mouth, his lips left hers to press wet kisses across her jaw and then down her neck. He kissed her clavicle, tracing a path to where her pulse beat rapidly, licking her there and sending another shudder through her body.

On the edges of consciousness, Alex was aware of the baby monitor crackling to life on the counter nearby. At first the sounds were the small fretting of wakefulness, but in moments they became a full-blown cry for attention.

Against her neck, he froze and then swore.

Alex couldn't help a hysterical-sounding laugh. "Where did she inherit her timing?"

As if in answer, his cell phone rang.

He stepped back and ran both hands up his face and over his head, clasping them behind his neck. "Someone better be dead," he muttered, his expression dark as a thunderstorm.

"I'll see to Tilly," Alex said, turning and following the wailing down the hallway.

Excitement and anticipation outweighed her fear ten-to-one as she practically skipped into the baby's room. She knew she had a ridiculous smile on her face, but couldn't seem to wipe it away.

"What's the matter _ma chou chou_?" Alex asked, reaching in to pick up Tilly. "What are you doing awake?" Alex quickly established a wet diaper had caused the disturbance. "Let's get that off then, shall we?"

The little girl's yowling soon subsided once the discomfort was removed, and after the fresh diaper was in place Alex leaned down to blow a raspberry on her belly. Tilly didn't smile, just frowned, her usual serious look, as if disapproving of such childish behavior. "Oh, you are your father's daughter," Alex laughed. She redressed the baby into her sleeper suit, noticing that Tilly's eyes were already drooping. _Good._ There should be no problems getting her back to sleep, Alex thought.

"I have to go back in."

Alex felt the anticipation burst inside her like a balloon against a bramble hedge. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned around to face the door where he stood – keeping one hand on Tilly's belly, not just for the safety of the baby on the change table, but as an anchor for herself. "That's what you do," she said, struggling to keep her tone light.

He nodded. "I wish . . . I mean, I wanted . . ." He shrugged and Alex knew exactly what he meant.

"Go," she said quietly.

"I promise I'll be home tomorrow night for Christmas Eve. If I have to euthanize the guy to be here."

Alex grimaced at the very idea, but she knew he was joking. "Go save a life. Tilly and I will be here when you get back."

He took a step inside the room and pressed a kiss to her mouth, quick, but hard.

They shared a look and Alex wanted to say so much, but the words wouldn't come. Tilly broke the silence with a restless cry designed to let everyone know she was sick of not being the center of her parents' attention. Alex twisted around and bundled the flailing baby into her arms. By the time she turned back to the door, he was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Alex kept both Kelly and Maria around as long as possible on Christmas Eve, not entirely sure why, but for some reason unwilling to let them go. She felt flighty, untethered, anxious, and didn't want to be alone, unsure exactly why.

She'd arranged a Christmas tree a few days prior and it was in the living room, next to the window. With the baby looking on, the three women decorated it with the few decorations Alex had found time to buy, and its multi-colored lights flashed out over the snow-filled yard.

In the mid-afternoon both women excused themselves to go home to their own families. Alex gave them both a kiss on each cheek and a card with a check as their holiday bonus – a hugely well-deserved bonus, Alex thought, considering what they'd been through and how they'd adapted to the rollercoaster they'd each unknowingly signed on for.

Alone with Tilly, Alex returned to the kitchen to continue her food preparations. Not knowing when – or if – Greg would be home for dinner, Alex had organized a simple tapas-style platter of lots of different tastes that she could pull out and serve quickly: marinated mushrooms, grilled courgette, slices of Spanish chorizo and some wonderfully stinky French cheese. In the refrigerator was a fillet of beef that she'd roast for their Christmas lunch the next day. Again, assuming Greg was home.

Tilly was too young to appreciate the event, but Alex involved her anyway, putting her in her carrier up on the kitchen counter as she prepared the food, chatting away to her in French.

Alex's buzz of nerves built, and although she tried to keep herself grounded, she found herself tunelessly humming carols and Christmas hymns under her breath as she flitted from one task to another. A TV channel was showing the carol service from Kings College in Cambridge and she left it on in the background as she fiddled in the kitchen, hoping the somber choral sounds might calm her down.

The one food item that she was putting a great deal of care and effort into was a traditional _buche de noel –_ a cake rolled into the shape of a log. There were many variations, but Alex's mother's version – the one she'd made every year, regardless of which country they were in – was always a flourless chocolate cake rolled with chocolate cream and decorated with glossy chocolate ganache. It was ludicrously rich and decadent, and way too much effort for just two people to eat, but Alex had felt compelled to make it. She figured it was part of re-establishing her identity, of reconnecting with her past.

After finishing her cooking she dressed herself and Tilly with care. She'd bought the baby a little red dress with white trim for the occasion. She had an image in her mind of Greg pulling the car into the garage and she'd open the front door before he got to it, holding Tilly in her arms, and a smile would break over his face as he saw the two of them waiting for him. _The perfect family_. But as the evening wore on with no sign of him and no phone call either, Alex started to feel her anticipation wane and her excitement turn to disappointment.

_Would they ever get themselves together? _

_Would they ever be able to repair the rift she'd caused and restart their life together? _

At eight o'clock, Alex realized she had to put an increasingly unhappy Tilly to bed. She'd been keeping the baby up in the hopes of having her little fantasy come true – and to stave off being truly by herself for just a little longer – but the second time she actively jostled the baby to keep her from going to sleep, Alex realized she was being ridiculous.

"I'm sorry _ma chérie_," she apologized in a whisper as the little girl's heavy eyelids closed the moment she was laid in her crib.

Alex went back into the kitchen and wandered around, wondering what to do with herself. The cooking and decorating and preparations had managed to keep her distracted. Eventually she went and sat in the living room, staring at the Christmas tree, wondering why she felt so lost.

She had chosen a doctor as her partner. This was the reality of that choice – an unpredictable schedule, nights on her own. Dying patients didn't care about the holidays.

But that wasn't it. _What was it, then? _Alex had learned a hard lesson about ignoring her emotional responses. She thought hard, trying to get to the bottom of her feelings of restlessness and disappointment.

Finally it hit her: loneliness.

Alex didn't want to be alone. Tonight of all nights.

Christmas was a time for families. After the carol service had concluded, Alex had flicked around the channels and then turned the TV off. Every station was filled with some program that showed families together, happy, celebrating. At the time she'd clicked the remote control to switch off the images, she hadn't been sure why they had been uncomfortable to watch. Now she knew.

Her grief for Kevin and Jack stabbed sharply in her chest.

She missed them so much. She loved Greg and Tilly, but Kevin and Jack would always be in her heart; always a part of her. They hadn't had a Christmas together, the three of them. Jack had been born in March and had been six months old when the men had come. She and Kevin had enjoyed five Christmases together, one of them with her mother, in Paris, an indulgent and joyful time where they'd eaten out in the best restaurants, drunk too much wine and fallen asleep in each other's arm on a Turkish rug in front of a window looking out over the _Centre Pompidou_.

The memory made her smile.

Memories. That was all she had of Kevin and Jack. The fact that she'd invented a life for herself for almost two years that totally denied their existence still filled her with a sharp stab of guilt. Closing her eyes, she brought pictures of each of them to her mind, painting them as vividly as she could. She gave them both a kiss.

"Merry Christmas my darlings," she whispered to the empty room.

Opening her eyes again, she took in the details of her new home. The fireplace, set ready to light. The beaten up chocolate-brown leather sofa that Greg refused to get rid of. A pink pacifier lying forgotten under the coffee table. A pile of medical journals stacked next to a lamp. Concrete evidence of the people and the things that were part of her life now.

She missed Greg.

She wanted him there, to comfort and warm her. Not to distract her, because that wasn't right, but to bring her into the present. Her past was sealed with love in her heart. She wanted to live for now.

-

* * *

-

"Alex?" House shook Alex's shoulder gently. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa, and the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree sent glittery colored flashes over her face.

"Hmm?"

"Alex, wake up."

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking up at him sleepily. She smiled. "You're home."

"I am."

"What's the time?" She stretched out.

"A little after eleven. I said I'd be home for Christmas Eve – I just made it."

"I must have fallen asleep."

"Did I miss dinner?" House asked, sounding more hopeful than he wanted to let on. His question was about a great deal more than just food.

She smiled and shook her head. "No. I've been waiting for you."

A little flicker in his chest caused House's breath to hitch for a moment. An unnamable emotion threatened to overwhelm him and he cleared his throat to rid himself of it. "Tilly?"

"She's asleep. How's the patient?"

He nodded once and smiled, still filled with self-satisfaction at his own genius. "He'll live to spend Christmas with his family. For many Christmases to come, in fact, not counting bus crashes or natural disasters."

Alex reached out, took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "You're a wonderful doctor."

Her blatant praise made House feel uncomfortable, so he straightened up and headed for the kitchen. "I'm not going back in for at least a couple of days, so let's have some champagne to celebrate."

"Sounds nice."

House went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of _Perier Jouet_ he'd been chilling in anticipation of this very event.

Home at Christmas with his family, House reflected. In a little twist to the philosopher Jagger's sentiments, sometimes you didn't know what you _wanted_ until you got what you _needed_.

He grabbed a couple of champagne flutes and set them down on the table in the living room before quickly ripping off the bottle's foil, removing the cage, and expertly encouraging the cork from its home.

"Quieter than a nun's fart," he said proudly as the bottle let off a quiet hiss as the cork slipped out.

"Greg!"

"It's what you French say," he defended.

"Yes, but _un pet de nonne_ sounds much nicer."

"Fine." He gave her a mock pout as he handed over a glass of wine. They clinked together and then drank.

"I love bubbles," Alex said with a sigh. "Especially French."

"I tried to get Argentinean champagne but the store was out."

Alex gave him a grim smile. "I know I am Argentinean by birth, but I feel French. I don't remember a lot of my early childhood. Not because it was unhappy, just because it was unremarkable. My life really started when my mother and I moved to France."

House paused for a moment, realizing what had just happened. Alex had given him a little present – the gift of an insight into her past. Her _real_ past. It was a special moment – another "first" in their relationship. It was only right to reciprocate.

"I remember the first time I had champagne. It was a celebration of some kind – a birthday maybe – and my mother had opened a bottle and told me I couldn't touch it. So as soon as her back was turned I poured myself a tumbler-full and drank the lot, even though I didn't like it."

Alex gave him an amazed look. "How old were you?"

"I don't know. I think about five or six."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_. What happened?"

"About ten minutes later I threw up everywhere. It was lucky my dad was away, because I hate to think what might have happened if he'd been around."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him. "You know, I don't think I'm the only one with skeletons in my past that may need to come out for an airing."

He gave her a grimace. "You might be right. But not tonight."

She smiled and reached over and took his hand in hers. "No, not tonight. But you were a terror of a child. Will Tilly inherit those genes?"

House nodded and squeezed her fingers gently. "Oh yes. I'm sure of it. Haven't you seen the way she pouts when she doesn't get her own way?"

"Absolutely. And that curious look of hers. She looks so much like you when she does that."

One side of his mouth hitched up in a smile. Alex was right. And for a moment he couldn't speak because of how simply astonishing it was that he had a daughter who took after him. That he had a daughter in the first place.

Alex snuggled down into the sofa, inching a little closer to him, House noted. "This is nice. We haven't had a chance to talk."

"We haven't been alone."

"No. With Tilly and Kelly and Maria. . ."

"And Wilson sticking his nose in every five minutes." Wilson had been visiting almost every day since Alex had returned, clearly thinking he was helping. House had felt strangely conflicted by it – on the one hand he wanted Alex to himself, on the other he was unsettled by that very same thing.

"Are you going to play _Pere Noel_ for Tilly tonight?" Alex asked with a grin.

House gave her a disbelieving look. "You mean sneak around filling her stocking with presents before she wakes up?"

"Exactly. Although in France we put shoes by the fireplace rather than stockings."

"You do realize that at two months old, it's doubtful she has visions of sugarplums dancing through her head."

Alex laughed. "You're right. It's probably overkill."

"I am looking forward to it though. In the future," he admitted.

"Giving her presents?"

"Yeah."

"Watching her open them." Alex smiled at the thought.

"Yeah. And how she'll play with the box the expensive toy came in."

"If she takes after you, she'll take it apart trying to find out how it works."

"And if she takes after you, then she'll write a poem about it," House countered.

Alex gave him a warm smile and leaned even closer to him. He could feel the warmth of her arm and her thigh against him, and the soft skin of her fingers where they entwined with his. Her faint vanilla fragrance drifted to him and the glass of champagne in her hand sparkled like her eyes.

"You're right. I wonder if she'll be a science or an arts student?" Alex mused.

"Speaking of presents," House said, changing the subject.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't have time to get you anything."

"That's okay. I didn't get you anything either. It's all been a little hectic."

"You could say that."

"I did want to give you something though."

"Yeah?" House's heart rate sped up as he noted the darkening of her eyes, the serious look she suddenly wore.

Without saying anything further, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his, gently, softly, hesitantly. Then she pulled away just a fraction, enough so they could look into each other's eyes. "Merry Christmas," she whispered. Her eyes clouded. "I still can't quite believe I'm here . . . That you . . . Whether we should—"

House kissed her again to shut her up. "I know. Rebuilding our relationship gradually, reforming the bonds of trust, blah, blah, blah," House sarcastically repeated some of the well-meaning advice from Dr Beasley at their last session together. "I've had enough of analysis and talking things through. Let's just live it now."

She nodded and smiled. "I agree."

"Do you suppose your agreement might extend to joining me in my – our – bed tonight?" he asked, trying hard not to show just how much he wanted her to say _yes_.

"That kiss? It was just the card to go with my gift."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. Want to unwrap the rest?" She stood up and reached out to him with one hand.

"I don't know about Tilly, but I'm suddenly filled with visions of sugarplums." He leered at her breasts before standing up and following her down the corridor.

They made love slowly and sweetly, relearning each other's bodies, and when he finally slipped inside her their gazes met and held.

"You still feel like destiny," Alex said, her voice breathy.

House grinned. "You feel a whole lot better than destiny."

-

* * *

-

Afterwards they lay together peacefully, touching along the lengths of their bodies, both awake but with eyes closed.

"I'm so glad that happened," Alex said dreamily.

"I was beginning to wonder."

"Thank you for being so patient. Not just this week, with the sleeping arrangements, but with everything."

"Just so you know, 'patient' isn't my default setting."

"I know. That's why I'm so grateful."

A cranky, complaining noise came from the baby monitor on the nightstand. A noise that usually foreshadowed wailing.

"Patient isn't her default setting either," House grumbled at the interruption.

"No, but at least she has better timing tonight."

Without thinking about it, House automatically got up to go to Tilly, but then fell back against the pillows. "Ah, Mommy's prerogative, tonight, I think." House knew it was skating on thin ice to start any kind of conversation about who owed who more night-time feeds. Even though he was thrilled with how things had turned out, and although rationally he understood why Alex hadn't been there, he did hold a small grudge over his seven weeks of sole parenthood. He wasn't a saint.

Alex got up and headed to Tilly's room, a smile the only thing she wore. House could hear her talking through the monitor. Alex spoke to Tilly in French, telling her a story as she changed her diaper, a tale about _Pere Noel_, the French version of Santa, and his sidekick _Pre Fouettard_ who kept the "naughty or nice" record up to date.

Both his girls appeared in the bedroom after a few moments, Alex holding a bottle of formula. "Okay if I feed her in here?" she asked. "It's cold out of bed."

House sat up and plumped the pillows behind him. "Give her to me," he said. "Let me show you our little nighttime ritual." House realized with surprise that he missed the middle-of-the-night rendezvous with his daughter – since Alex had come home, she'd been handling nighttime feeds and letting him sleep through.

He found his glasses, grabbed the nearest medical journal – there was always one within reach – and then reached out for Tilly. Alex handed the squalling infant over to him and then crawled into bed beside them.

Once the baby was sucking away on her bottle, House balanced the magazine against a raised knee. "Okay Tilly, looks like we've got the bumper Christmas edition of BMJ tonight. Oh, let's look at this one: _T__he BBC, penicillin, and the second world war_. A touch of history with our medicine tonight."

"You read her medical journals?" Alex asked with eyebrows raised.

"Children's books are so lame. And it's not as if she follows the narrative, she just needs to hear language so she can one day start copying it. At least this way I learn something too."

Alex looked like she was going to protest, but then shrugged. "Weirdly, that makes sense." She gave him a smile and then snuggled down on the pillow next to him, watching them both.

"Right. _Alexander Fleming published his seminal paper on penicillin__ in 1929, but the transformation of penicillin into a useful__ therapeutic agent was to take its virtual rediscovery, some__10 years later, by Howard Florey and his coworkers at Oxford __University. The story that followed Florey's entry into __the picture was a compelling race against time. . ._"

"I love listening to your voice," Alex said, quietly, as if she was loathe to interrupt.

"Really?"

"Yes. When we first met – when I was lying on the road, pretending the accident hadn't happened, the best thing about it was listening to you."

"Wasn't I pretty grouchy?"

She grinned. "_Oui!_ Very grouchy. But when I walked away, running away from the police and the ambulance, I was thinking how nice it would be to close my eyes and just listen to you talk." A fragile expression crossed her face and her bottom lip began to tremble. "And now – it's like my wish has come true."

House pursed his lips, not exactly sure what to say to that, not prepared for her emotion. Alex, seeming to read his uncertainty, swallowed away the threatening tears and smiled gently instead. "Read," she encouraged.

House nodded and read until Tilly's bottle was almost empty. As usual, his inquisitive daughter stared up at him almost the whole time, her focus and attention getting more and more developed every day. Alex had been lying there watching them both, but he'd seen her eyes grow heavy and now he was pretty sure she was asleep. Tilly's eyelids, too, had begun to droop and she seemed in danger of falling asleep before the formula was finished.

He took his glasses off, dumped the journal on the floor, and put the almost-empty bottle on the nightstand. For a while he just lay there, a sleepy Tilly on his shoulder while he rubbed her back, a sleeping Alex next to him.

_A wish come true?_

He could hardly believe it _was_ true. Was this really his life? A father? A partner? A person who had stood by someone else through tough times?

If someone had asked him, even this time last year, he'd never have guessed he had it in him.

Perhaps it was the repayment of a karmic debt he owed to Stacy. Although, he had to say he'd done a better job than she had. At least he hadn't given up.

House thought momentarily about waking Alex so she could take Tilly back to her crib. But then some kind of Christmas spirit must have taken him over because he decided to let her sleep.

"Come on kiddo, let's get you in bed," he said to Tilly as he got up and settled her in her crib. "And it'd be really nice if you slept in tomorrow. Daddy would like to play Santa with Mommy and put something in her stocking. It's not going to be G-rated."

-

* * *

**A/N:** Article is real! It's from the British Medical Journal, 12 December 2008, www bmj com/cgi/content/full/337/dec12_1/a2746, if you're interested (put dots after www and bmj) -- I can't wait for the authors to be Googling it one day and have this story pop up in their search results… lol


	23. Chapter 23

The next morning Alex gave Tilly her early morning feed and let House sleep. She figured he deserved an extra few hours in bed after the past few days he'd had.

Once Tilly was taken care of, Alex put her in her bouncer and began preparing the meal that would be their lunch and dinner, daubing the meat with herbs and garlic before putting it in the oven to roast slowly.

"What's for breakfast?" House walked into the kitchen, scratching his beard. He'd pulled on pajama pants and a t-shirt that read _Santa's little helper. _

Alex laughed. "What is it, exactly, that you help Santa with?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "You'll find out." He pulled out a chair near where Tilly was propped up and tickled her tummy before turning back to Alex with a frown. "Where's my breakfast woman? You didn't even feed me dinner last night. How am I supposed to ravish you on an empty stomach?"

"_Vouz avez plein de merde__,_" Alex muttered.

"Hey, that was rude. Not in front of the baby."

"She doesn't understand."

"Not yet, maybe, but you keep telling her Daddy he's full of shit and she'll get pissed with you. Won't you Tilly?"

Alex rolled her eyes at his double standard. "What would you like for breakfast, m'lord?" she said, giving a little bow.

"Coffee first. What smells good?" He sniffed.

"Our Christmas dinner. Beef. It won't be ready for a few hours yet." Alex poured them each coffee and put the cups on the table. She arranged a plate of croissants and marmalade and some fresh cherries which had been stupidly expensive but to her always went with Christmas. "This is for starters. I'll make some eggs in a minute," she said, arranging the plate on the table.

He grabbed her as she went past, giving her butt cheek a squeeze. "When the munchkin goes to sleep I expect the second half of my Christmas present."

"Oh, really?" Alex sat down and took a sip of her coffee, suppressing the surge of desire that pulsed through her at his touch.

He daubed an extravagant amount of marmalade on his croissant and took a huge bite. He gave her a grin around his mouthful. "Can we do Christmas presents?"

Alex nodded. "I guess so, while she's awake. They're all for her."

"All of them?" His face fell in an exaggerated pout.

"Come on. You can unwrap them."

It took only a few minutes to open the handful of presents under the tree. There was a hand-knitted cardigan from the housekeeper Maria and a storybook from the nanny Kelly. House had been given a gift from his team and told it was for Tilly – on unwrapping it, they found it was a silver Tiffany christening cup, engraved with Tilly's full name and birth date.

"It's beautiful," Alex said. "We don't have anything like this for her."

"I pay them too much," House grumbled.

Without telling the other, House and Alex had each gone out and bought gifts for Tilly. House unwrapped Alex's gift, shrugging at the expensive designer outfit and ornate, antique-style jointed teddy bear.

"Don't you like them?" Alex asked, gathering up the Dolce & Gabbana dress and matching jacket from where he'd dumped them in a pile on the floor.

"They're okay, I guess. Open mine, it's better," he said eagerly.

Alex shook her head, not sure whether to be annoyed or entertained by his childishness. He pushed a large box over to her and as Alex began to peel the bright wrapping paper away, she scowled. "Who's this gift really for?" she asked, revealing a Wii game station with all the accessories.

"She'll be great at it," he said dismissively. "I'll just have to learn it first so I can teach her."

Alex bit her lip and then finally gave in to the laughter bubbling inside her. "You're incorrigible."

He ignored her and pulled the box back towards him, opening it and beginning to work out how it needed to be put together.

Alex had a feeling she knew just what her Christmas day was going to be like now. Surprisingly, the idea of sitting on the sofa while someone else played video games didn't sound so bad. She'd drink some champagne and eat the food she'd prepared and cuddle Tilly and watch a fifty-year-old man pretend to be a teenager again.

Life could be a lot worse. She knew for a fact.

Tilly had been quiet as she watched them, her eyes open and arms waving haphazardly. But as it grew closer to the time for her nap she began to fidget in the restraints, letting out louder grumbles of protest.

Alex bundled Tilly up into her arms with soothing noises. "I'm going to put her down and then I'll make us some eggs, okay?"

House barely looked up from his intense study of the complicated instruction sheet.

Alex had only taken a few steps before the doorbell rang. "You expecting anyone?" she asked with a frown.

"Could be Wilson, I guess."

"I'm in my pajamas," Alex pointed out, when he showed no sign of getting up to answer the door. _Not to mention the crying baby in my arms._

"So am I." He didn't even look up.

Alex rolled her eyes, but went to the door and peered through the security hole. A delivery guy stood there, holding a clipboard and a small box.

"Delivery for Alex Blake," he said.

Alex opened the door. "Deliveries on Christmas day?"

The kid shrugged, clearly unhappy about his job.

Alex signed for the box and then fumbled in her purse for a tip. Juggling the still-unhappy baby and the A5-sized box, she went back into the living room.

"Was it Wilson?"

"No, a delivery."

"What is it?" House asked, not looking up from his new toy.

"I don't know, I haven't opened it yet." Tilly had begun to cry louder, upset that her wishes hadn't been obeyed yet. "Let me put her down and I'll come back." Alex looked at the box, it seemed innocuous enough. Greg had barely looked up – did he already know what was in it? _Had he bought her a Christmas present after all?_ It was just the sort of thing he'd do. Alex felt a little jolt of excitement, but Tilly wasn't going to be ignored any longer, so she slipped the box onto the table near the door next to a stack of medical journals and hoisted the little girl onto her shoulder.

Just as she was about to head down to the nursery, the doorbell rang again.

House was still engrossed in the instructions for his game. Alex patted Tilly's back in apology for the further delay and went to open the door again.

"Happy Christmas," Wilson said, giving her a broad smile.

"James, it's lovely to see you." Alex winced internally, wishing she wasn't still in her pajamas.

"Hello Tilly," Wilson said in a high-pitched voice. "Has Santa come to visit you? Want to come cuddle with your Unca Wilson?" Wilson took off his jacket and held his hands out for the baby.

"Yes, Santa has been." Alex handed Tilly over reluctantly, realizing she had no choice. "Tilly's tired, so she's a little grumpy." She hoped Wilson would get the hint and realize that the baby needed to go to sleep.

"The baby got a Wii?" Wilson asked with raised eyebrows as they entered the living room and he saw House busy with all the packaging.

"I know, lucky baby," House answered.

Wilson handed a gift bag to Alex. "I got Tilly a gift."

"You didn't have to do that," Alex said sincerely. "But thank you."

The two of them sat on the sofa, Wilson still jiggling a fussing Tilly. House moved over to the TV and started to play with the cables that would make his Christmas present to himself come to life.

"In my family we don't celebrate Christmas, of course," Wilson said, "but the kids usually get a present today anyway. I had to go buy things for my niece and nephews, and when I saw this I thought of Tilly."

Alex opened the bag and pulled out a large box. Inside were small, beautifully crafted little jungle animals all tied together and sparkling with glitter. "It's a mobile! It's beautiful. Look Greg, James gave Tilly a beautiful mobile."

Wilson looked a little embarrassed by Alex's effusive praise. "I thought when she's ready you could use it to teach her about animals."

"Absolutely." Alex was very touched by the gift. "It's lovely." She reached over and gave Wilson a kiss on each cheek. "Now, would you like something to eat? Some champagne?"

"Thanks." Wilson looked down at Tilly who had continued to wail throughout the present-opening activities. "I don't know if Tilly likes her present, she doesn't seem very happy."

"Give her to me." House got up, wincing and groaning as his weight went onto his leg. Alex could have predicted that would happen – sitting on the floor and then bending and reaching to play with the TV cables wasn't going to be good for muscles that didn't stretch the way they used to.

Wilson handed the baby over to House and she instantly calmed a little. Alex tried hard not to let her reaction show on her face. Although she and Tilly had bonded over the past weeks and Alex loved her with all her heart, Tilly still had a special connection with her father. One that had been forged by the simple fact that he had been there for her in her first weeks of life – something Alex would never be able to change.

"Now, if you could just finish connecting that white cable into the back of the DVD player . . ." House began issuing instructions to Wilson, rocking Tilly back and forward in one arm as he paced around the living room, leaning heavily on his cane, stretching out his leg.

Alex smiled as she watched James Wilson uncomplainingly hunker down on the floor and take up the job of connecting the video game. Still smiling to herself, she went into the kitchen and fixed a tray of champagne and some of the tapas they hadn't got around to eating the night before.

By the time she returned to the living room, Tilly was nowhere to be seen – or heard – so Alex figured House had managed to put her down to sleep. The two men were fighting good-naturedly over how to make the system work. Alex watched them, knowing she should go and get dressed and work on preparations for lunch, but it was too nice just to curl up on the sofa in her PJs and sip champagne and watch the two men play around.

_Finally_, Alex realized. _It was starting to feel like home. _

Once the game was all hooked up and working Alex kicked herself for not thinking of buying the thing for House herself. The look on his face as he played first tennis, and then golf, was priceless. "I always did have a good backhand," he said, giving her a grin that made the years drop from his face.

A cry came from the nursery, loud enough that they didn't even need the baby monitor to relay it. Alex frowned. "It's a little early for her to be awake again."

"Must be all the excitement," Wilson said, leaning hard to one side in a futile attempt to dodge some on-screen obstacle. "She doesn't want to miss out."

Alex went into the nursery and picked up the wailing baby. She was crying hard, a pain cry Alex thought, and she was instantly concerned. Cuddling Tilly tightly to her breasts, Alex headed back out into the living room. "Greg, do you think she feels hot?"

Without pausing the game, House gestured with his free hand for Alex to bring Tilly closer. With just a quick glance he put the back of two fingers against Tilly's forehead. "She's okay," he said, going straight back to the golf game he was losing against Wilson .

Alex spent the next hour pacing with Tilly, rocking her and making soothing noises. Nothing worked. She walked through every room in the house, trying to give the men some space to play, talking to Tilly, telling her silly stories and stroking her face. Tiny tears beaded on the little girl's eyelashes and Alex felt like she was going to cry in sympathy. She had only been Tilly's fulltime mother for a week or so, and she hadn't yet had one of these moments. She knew it could be nothing – she'd even had a doctor say she was fine – but Alex's anxiety ramped up with each raggedly indrawn breath of her daughter. She walked back into the living room.

"The kid's interrupting my game!" House called out over the screaming. "I can't hear myself think! Take her down the other end of the house. Don't you know how to settle her?"

Alex was too upset to pay attention to his demands, but the stab at her competence as a mother hit home. "You take her. She might calm down for you."

"Wait. Lemme just—" House frowned at the TV screen and shot a sidelong glance at Wilson. Then he made some exaggerated movement with the controller and if the loud wah-wah-wah noise hadn't told Alex that he'd bombed out, the dark cloud that descended on his face, would have.

"Ha ha!" Wilson crowed. "I totally whipped your ass!"

"Yeah, first time ever – and I had a handicap," he said, throwing the controller to the floor like a petulant child before taking Tilly roughly from Alex's arms. "Stupid kid."

House held the baby against his shoulder, and then winced as she wailed directly into his ear. He quickly repositioned her, cradling her in the crook of an elbow. None of it made a difference to the baby's distress.

"Has she done this before?" Alex asked, forcing the words out, needing to know the answer, but not wanting to have to ask. Asking only reinforced the fact that she'd already missed so much of her daughter's life and added an extra level of unease to her already frazzled nerves.

"Not for this long." House frowned and peered more closely at the baby. He put the back of his hand to her face again. "I think she has a fever."

"Argh!" Alex made a strangled noise and threw her hands up in the air. Irritation drowned out her anxiety for a moment. "I told you! If you hadn't been so wrapped up in your stupid—"

"Yeah, yeah," House dismissed her anger with a wave of his hand. "She'll be fine. She just needs some baby Tylenol."

"Should we take her in to the hospital to get checked out?" Alex asked, wringing her hands, concern quickly trumping anger. She couldn't lose another baby. It would kill her.

Wilson walked over to where House sat with Tilly and put his hand on her face too. "Poor little thing," he said.

"She'll be fine," House said. "Just get the Tylenol."

"I really think—" Alex began, not about to be dismissed again. She'd been right before.

"We're not taking her to the hospital, Alex!" House looked up at her, his eyes sharp and cold. "You've got two doctors here who've just looked at her and who have a golf game to get back to."

"But—" Tilly's jagged cries tore at Alex's heart.

"I'm an infectious diseases expert for Christ's sake. I know a little about fevers. And Wilson – does Tilly have cancer?"

"What? Well, no, I—"

"There you are," House declared. "She doesn't have cancer either. Stop being an idiot."

Alex's eyes were hot with tears but she didn't want to cry in front of Wilson. _So much for the happy Christmas she'd pictured. _"I'll get the Tylenol," she said, her voice breaking in a telltale way. She hurried to the bathroom, taking a moment there to press a towel to her face and try to compose herself. When she returned to the living room she handed House the Tylenol and watched as Wilson took determined steps towards the front door.

"I'd better be going anyway," he said, ducking out of the room and into the hallway. Alex felt bad about not showing him out and it just compounded all the feelings threatening to overwhelm her. Anxiety about Tilly, anger and guilt about not being a good enough mother, fear and disappointment at House's comments to her. Tilly kept crying, her wails going up a notch as her father lay her down on the sofa cushions while he measured out the medicine and then gently put the dropper to her mouth.

The front door opened and closed. Alex felt an almost unbearable urge to follow Wilson. To run away from this. It was too hard, too much, and she wasn't ready. Tilly, inconsolable and sick. House, angry with her inability to cope, insulting her in front of his friend. The morning had started out so well, Alex had finally started feeling settled. And now . . . _She should have known it couldn't last._

"There you go, you little witch," House said to Tilly, his voice a soft contrast to the words. He picked the baby up and cradled her against his body, rubbing her back. "Now if you could just be quiet, we'd all appreciate being able to get on with our lives."

Alex knew that the sight should have been reassuring. Any other mother would be proud of watching a father could take care of his baby. But this time all it did was reinforce Alex's own incompetence. She was shaking so hard she had to sit down and she almost fell onto the sofa, as far from the two of them as she could sit.

House didn't even glance her way. He kept talking to Tilly, saying random things about the Wii games, Wilson, the hospital and, after a few minutes, Tilly's wails began to calm down. Then her cries turned into hiccups. Then the hiccups became sleep. House let out a sigh.

"Do you think I should try to put her down, or will moving her wake her up?" he asked quietly, looking across at Alex.

Alex started, lost in her own maelstrom of thoughts, it took her a moment to realize the comment was directed at her and then another moment to process the question. "Why are you asking me?" She genuinely meant it.

"Uh, because you might know the answer?" he replied in a "duh" voice.

"Why would I know?"

He frowned and gave her one of those enquiring looks. A shadow crossed his face. "Alex, I might have spent seven weeks with Tilly without you, but you had six months of parenting experience with Jack. You win. You do realize that?"

"I can't do this," Alex said, her voice catching and her breathing ragged. "I thought I could, but I can't."

"Don't be stupid."

Alex didn't answer. _Incompetent, idiot, stupid,_ yeah, she guessed she was all of those. She raised a shaking hand to wipe some stray tendrils of hair from her face.

"I'm going to put her in the crib – we'll see if she stays asleep." He disappeared for a few minutes and then reappeared with a satisfied smile. "Touchdown. I've had enough video games for today, wanna play hide the sausage instead?"

"What?" Alex looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. "You want to have sex?"

"_Oui. J'ai envie de toi_." He grinned, but it quickly became a frown as he took in the expression Alex's face. "What's the matter?"

"I need you to take me back. I don't think I was ready to leave Mayfield," Alex said hesitantly. She didn't want to go back there, but if she couldn't cope, then surely it was the most sensible thing.

He rolled his eyes. "What? Why not?"

"I'm a wreck. I didn't handle any of this well."

Suddenly he seemed to realize that Alex was serious. He took in a breath and blew it out, sitting on the sofa nearby, but not touching her. "What makes you say that?"

"I . . . can't cope."

"Guess what – you already did."

"What?" Alex frowned.

"You did the hard part today."

"I couldn't settle her."

"No, because I was an idiot and didn't realize she was really sick. If we'd given her the medication earlier you wouldn't have had to pace with her that whole time. I'm sorry."

_He was sorry?_

"You were actually a lot less hysterical than most mothers of sick babies I've seen."

"What?"

"Especially . . . well, I _was_ being mean to you," he admitted.

Alex shook her head. "I was too scared. Too scared to do anything."

"But you did it anyway," he said, reaching over and tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "Dr Beasley said that stressful situations would be hard for you at first. And you just had the perfect storm of stress. A crying baby would drive anyone around the bend. And you were anxious because Tilly was sick – which is bad enough even if you haven't already experienced losing a child. And I wasn't . . . particularly helpful. But I was just having so much fun with the new toy. And you're still here. You're still you. You didn't run away."

"No, I guess . . ." Alex wondered if he was right. She hadn't done anything wrong. She'd taken care of Tilly. She'd been upset because her child was sick. She'd been hurt because he'd been rude to her. What was unbalanced about any of that? Alex realized she just needed to get used to managing strong emotions again, to understand that they could be experienced without being life-altering.

He had the good grace to look sheepish. "I really am sorry. I should have realized that would have been hard for you."

"I'm still . . . fragile," she said, her bottom lip trembling with the tears she'd managed to hold inside.

"Beautifully so," he agreed, leaning in to kiss her, kissing a line up her cheek where the tears spilled over when she closed her eyes. "Let me make it up to you," he whispered in her ear. "Especially given that our terrifyingly gorgeous little daughter has a cold and probably will be awake and screaming again very soon."

He stood up and threw a few of the pillows from the sofa onto the floor near the Christmas tree before holding a hand out to her.

"You wanted to know why I'm Santa's _not-so-little_ helper?" He gave her a cheeky grin. "I've always wanted to do it under a Christmas tree. And this might be the last opportunity we'll have until she moves out of home in eighteen or so years."

Alex managed a laugh through her tears. "You're right. If she saw us, she'd be scarred for life."

He lowered himself to the floor and Alex knelt down beside him, allowing him to pull her against him for a kiss. He explored her mouth thoroughly, and Alex felt the drugging hot pulse in her groin that he seemed effortlessly able to fan to life. He nibbled along her jawbone and then kissed her ear, sucking her earlobe for a moment. "I'm sorry I'm such an asshole," he whispered. "I don't mean it, but sometimes I don't think."

"I know." Alex raised her hands to stroke his back. She had a sudden realization about what might have caused his unusually aggressive behavior towards her. "Was it good to play golf again?"

He stilled against her, taking in a sharp breath. He let it out slowly. "Yeah. Sort of. It's good, but it's not the real thing."

"Reminded you how much you missed it, huh?"

He pulled back from her ear so he could meet her eyes. "Mayfield rubbed off on you, didn't it? Think you're some kind of shrink now?"

Alex saw through the humor and knew he was deflecting. She'd let him, for now. There'd been enough deep and meaningful conversation for one day. "I'd like to think I make you grow, instead of shrink," she said, quirking an eyebrow as she reached down to cup him in her palm.

"Oh yeah," he groaned, pushing himself into her hand.

Given they were both still in pajamas, it didn't take long to get naked and once all their clothes were gone Alex couldn't resist the chance to press against him, skin to skin. She held him tightly, and he seemed to realize it was something she needed, so he hugged her back, his arms wrapped all the way around her body, embracing her, anchoring her. The storm of emotions she'd been through subsided and the feeling she'd enjoyed that morning – the feeling of being home and safe – returned. Stronger, if anything, than before, because now she knew it was more secure; she knew now that she could weather the occasional storms that might come along.

After a minute he released his grip on her, kissing down her body until he lay between her legs, his mouth teasing and exploring, building her pitch. He brought her to the peak only to pull back before she could surrender to it, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he moved up her body again.

"_Salaud_." _Bastard_.

"_Je te desire_," he replied. _I want you._

"Oh." Alex gasped as he put a knee between her legs. "Well that's okay then."

He kissed her again and Alex put one hand to his neck, stroking the soft skin and short hair on his nape. Her other hand trailed down his back, stopping when she reached his buttocks, pushing his hips down, pressing him against her harder.

"_Baise moi_," she whispered against his lips.

"Oh, you rude girl," he said, laughing softly. "Are you going to teach your daughter a potty mouth like that?"

Alex growled, frustrated, as he continued to play with her, stroking her with his shaft but not deep enough or hard enough to give her what she needed. The ache to be filled intensified. "Greg, _please_," she begged.

"Say it again," he said, his lips still touching hers.

"_Baise moi_," Alex repeated, breathing the words into his mouth. "Fuck me. _Please_."

In answer, he reached down and positioned himself, stabbing into her in one thrust, piercing her to her very core. She groaned. At first it was too much, almost painful, she was too full. But the pain was edged by pleasure and soon the pleasure overcame everything else and Alex was gripping him tightly, trying to pull him harder, deeper, trying to merge them so she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

"More," she said.

"Yes."

He began moving, setting a slow pace to start with that didn't satisfy either of them for long. Then he raised up onto his hands over her, picking up speed, taking them both to the brink.

"Oh, Greg!" Alex cried out as he reached that spot inside her and her muscles convulsed inwards, pulling him into her, never wanting the moment to end.

His guttural groan told her he'd followed her over the edge and, a moment later, he collapsed next to her, burying his face in her neck.

They both lay there, breathing heavily, and Alex ran her hands all over him, reassuring herself that he was real.

"I love you, you neurotic little _bécasse_," he muttered.

"I love you too."

-

* * *

-

By the time they'd staggered up from the floor next to the Christmas tree and enjoyed a hot, soapy shower together, it was mid-afternoon. Alex told him that the food would still be another hour, so they decided to take a nap, especially given that Tilly was still out for the count. They'd checked in on her and it seemed like her temperature had come down a little, but House was betting there would still be hell to come.

Alex fell asleep straight away, exhausted by her emotional turmoil, House guessed. Not to mention the stunning sex – if he did say so himself.

After lying in bed next to a gently snoring Alex, House found he couldn't settle, so he got up, dressed, and went back to the living room. The Wii beckoned, but he decided to forgo it for a little while. Alex was right – it was fun, but it brought with it a strong melancholy for the things he could no longer do.

He walked over to the windows, staring out at the snow-covered yard and grey skies. The lights from the Christmas tree reflected in the window from behind him, adding a strangely colorful tint to the otherwise monochrome landscape.

He was about to head for the piano, thinking a little time with the ivories might help still his mind, when something caught his eye outside. A white car, parked across the street, just like the ones that he'd seen following him previously. A single, male occupant sat in the driver's seat. He squinted, trying to see the driver, but the snow and the reflections made that difficult. He was a smallish man, House figured from his height in relation to the steering wheel. Maybe the man was a woman? But no, the shoulders and something about the hair made him sure the person was male. Then, suddenly, the driver moved and a moment later House's landline phone rang.

He was startled by the sudden noise in the otherwise quiet house, and couldn't help wondering if the phone and the white car driver's movement were related. Of course it was unlikely, it most probably was the hospital, even thought he had signed himself out for the holidays. But if it was his team – or Cuddy – he knew from past experience that they'd just keep calling, and calling, and calling . . .

He strode over and picked up the phone, turning back to the windows immediately. "House," he barked into the phone, leaving the caller in no doubt as to his displeasure at being disturbed.

There was no answering voice on the phone.

"Who is this?" House demanded. He realized in a moment that his posture was mirrored by the man in the car. House held a phone to his ear, and so did he. Slowly the driver pulled the phone away from his head and gave House a nod and a short, salute-like wave. He then flipped the phone shut.

The call House was listening to immediately ended with a soft click.

House stood, frozen, watching as the driver started up the car and slowly drove away.

_What had just happened?_

He took the phone from his ear and held it in front of him, staring at it as if it could answer the multitude of questions running through his mind. The questions swarmed and multiplied, accompanied by a growing anxiety in the pit of his belly.

_Whatever it was, it couldn't be good._

"Oh, shit," he muttered and put the phone down. He stood in the living room, staring about himself, wondering what to do next.


	24. Chapter 24

House stood there, staring at the windows without seeing anything. A sick feeling twisted in his gut.

_What did it mean?_

It had to be a joke. Someone's idea of a cruel, heartless joke.

House remembered noticing the white Toyota Camrys that seemed to be following him, laughing it off as a part of the priming effect psychologists talked about. _Have someone tell you a white car is following you and then see how many white cars you notice. _But what if it wasn't?

_What if he really _had_ been being followed? What if Alex really had been? What if her paranoia had been justified?_

Every time he had noticed it, he'd chalked it up to random chance. But the scientist in him knew now it was more than that. What had just happened was meant to be a message. Whoever it was that was behind this had just shown him that they knew enough to know where he lived, what his phone number was, and were cocky enough to let him know that they knew.

Alex would . . . _freak_.

Without conscious thought he sat down at the piano and began playing, his mind not on the music at all.

If it _was_ a joke, then who was behind it? And it if wasn't a joke – as the logical side of his brain insisted – then what did it mean?

Alex had been delusional, but what had happened to her and Kevin and Jack had been terrifyingly real. South American gangsters, enemies of her billionaire father, had exacted revenge for some unknown slight. No one had ever been brought to justice for the crimes, not in the traditional sense. Alex had been assured by her father that it had been taken care of, but what did that mean?

Did what had just happened mean there was yet more to come?

The thought stilled his fingers on the keys and his mind's eye flew to the sleeping woman and the sleeping baby at the other end of the house.

_Were they safe? _

House thought about calling the police, but the threat was so vague as to be laughable. What would they do anyway? It wasn't like New Jersey's finest would provide bodyguards. Given what had happened last time, they'd at least take it seriously, but they wouldn't really be able to _do_ anything. They'd likely just arrange for a patrol car to drive past a couple of times a day. Like that would put anyone off – let alone professional assassins.

House had to do something. But what?

With more than a tinge of guilt for his own part in it, House remembered Alex's panic and anxiety earlier that day. He'd forgotten Dr Beasley's advice to be careful with Alex and her emotions – to stay close and be watchful whenever she went through anything stressful. Stress could be a trigger for a relapse, Dr Beasley had warned, Alex would find it hard at first to deal with strong emotions. He should have been more attentive, he knew, but he'd honestly thought Tilly was just having one of those inexplicable crying fits that babies went through every now and then.

_If Alex thought a sick, crying baby was enough to send her back to Mayfield, what would knowing something like this do to her? _

As if in answer to his thoughts, a cry came from the end of the hallway, and House automatically rose to attend to it. Tilly was thrashing around in the crib, wailing, and now House could see yellowish snot in her nose, confirming his rhinovirus diagnosis. _Great. _Like he needed a sick baby on top of all this.

He picked Tilly up, checking his watch to find when they could give her another dose of analgesic – not for another hour at least. He took her out to the living room and sat down with her at the piano, settling her in his lap and beginning to play. _Sometimes it worked. _Thankfully it seemed to do the trick this time as well, the sound and movement enough to distract the little thing from the discomfort of her sinuses. She quieted down, watching his hands with that intent, frowning expression of hers.

House knew he was being stupid. Playing the piano while his and his family's lives were potentially in mortal danger was nothing short of idiocy. But he didn't know what else to do.

The next thing House was aware of was the electronic click of a digital camera.

"That is so cute," Alex said. "I had to take it."

House rolled his eyes.

Alex advanced towards him with a handful of Kleenex. "Except for the mucus, of course. Hopefully we can Photoshop that out." She reached down and wiped Tilly's face, causing the baby to shake her head in protest and cry.

House shrugged, taking one hand from the keys to hold his squirming daughter in place. "I think the mucus adds a touch of realism to the whole thing."

Alex stepped back and held her hands up like she was framing the image. "Portrait of the artist with father and mucus," she said, smiling.

_Father._

The wheels began turning in House's head. Alex said that her father, Marciano Marquez, had told her that he'd dealt with her assailants. _What did that mean?_ Had they been killed? Captured? Handed over to the authorities? House thought that last one was entirely doubtful. Somehow though, at least one had survived, or a new band of enemies had arisen. Was that because Marquez's payback had been incompetently handled, or because he hadn't done anything at all? House had no way of knowing. But it seemed to House that if anyone would know how to handle this kind of situation it would have to be Marciano Marquez.

"I thought you didn't have a patient right now," Alex said, hands on her hips.

House blinked. "I don't. Why?"

"You've got that look on your face, like you're working something out."

"I was just thinking. Have you called your father for Christmas yet?"

Alex dropped her gaze. "No. I haven't spoken to him for more than two years now, though, so I'm not exactly sure he's sitting by the phone waiting for my call." She looked up at him again, narrowing her eyes. "Have you called your mother?"

House shook his head. "We're not exactly on great terms after she found out about Tilly from Thirteen." House hadn't discovered until too late that his mother had called his office a week after Tilly's birth and, on leaving a message for House, had been congratulated by Thirteen at becoming a grandmother. Seeing as Blythe House hadn't even heard about Alex, let alone Tilly, the call he'd made a few days later had been frosty to say the least, and Thirteen had been inexplicably called to deal with an impacted bowel in the ER shortly afterward.

"I think you should call her," Alex said, biting her lip.

"I will if you will." _Perfect._

Alex shook her head. "The situations are a little different," she protested.

"I want you to talk to my mother and then I can talk to your father. We have a child together. It's about time we met the in-laws," House said, tucking Tilly under one arm as he went to pick up the phone. In reality, he had no desire to meet his in-laws or for his mother to have any further insight into his family life. As far as his mother was concerned? Well, they just didn't have that kind of relationship, and he wasn't sure she was all that thrilled with becoming a grandmother at this late stage of her life anyway. But he needed to talk to Alex's father, and if this was the only way of doing it . . .

He dialed his mother's number before he could change his mind. Alex turned away, but House stepped in front of her, preventing her from leaving the room.

"Hi, Mom, Merry Christmas," he said into the phone as his mother answered.

Predictably, his mother returned the greeting but then started in, chastising him for never calling; for the fact that he'd never invited her to Princeton to meet her granddaughter or his girlfriend; and that she was getting on now and did he understand how much trouble her knees were giving her these days?

House interrupted. "Mom, I've got to go, Tilly's getting restless." It wasn't a lie. Sick of being held like a football, Tilly had begun to fuss, and another stream of yellow gunk was marching down her face. "Why don't you talk to Alex?" He handed the phone over. "_You'll be fine_," he mouthed, taking in Alex's worried expression.

"Hello? Missus House?"

House wiped Tilly's nose and put her over his shoulder, patting her back and walking around the living room so she was distracted by the changing scenery. House knew it wasn't kind to compare his child to a goldfish, but sometimes the similarity couldn't be denied.

"Yes, we have had a lovely day." Pause. Alex's accent was stronger as she spoke more formally. "No, I understand, it is fine." Pause. Alex threw a dirty look at him. "I'm sorry you didn't have our address, I will give it to you now."

House shrugged as Alex recited their address and then paused while his mother clearly continued to whine about not having it.

"I'm sure Tilly will not mind the Christmas present from her Grandmama being a little late," Alex said eventually. "All she did with the gifts she got today was suck on some of the wrapping paper we didn't get out of the way fast enough." Long pause. Alex gave a little laugh and then shot House a shit-eating grin. "I can just imagine. Yes, yes. I'm sure he was."

House sneered at her, screwing up his face as he imagined what story his mother was telling her. Probably the time that he put the Christmas tree lights into the bath to see—

_No! Focus._

House turned away from Alex and gave himself a mental slap. He needed to stop worrying about which particular childhood tale his mother might be telling and work out what he was going to say to Alex's father when he got to speak to him. How exactly could he tell a man he'd never met – a billionaire businessman-cum-gangster if the news reports were to be believed – that his daughter and her family had been threatened in a completely unverifiable way, all without creating any anxiety for Alex? And what would the man do as a result? What if he did nothing? What would House do then?

One step at a time, House told himself. Talk to Marciano Marquez. See what he said. Then go from there.

"_Merci_ Missus House. Yes, okay, if you are sure, _Blythe_. Merry Christmas. _Au revoir_."

Alex let out a long breath as she put the phone back in the cradle. "She's not as bad as you made me think," she said, walking over to where House stood rocking back and forward with Tilly balanced on his arm.

"Did she complain about her knees?"

"Yes. And she told me about when you—"

Tilly sneezed, drawing the attention of both adults. She screwed up her face and sneezed again, this time blowing a bubble of mucus out of her nose.

House recoiled and held her away from himself. "Ew! That's gross, you little monster."

Alex laughed and then pouted at Tilly. "Aw, _mon petite cherie_, my poor, sick girl. What is your Papa calling you? You're not a monster, but, yes, that was gross." She reached out to take Tilly from him.

House brought Tilly close to his body and took a step back. "Call your father."

"I will. Just let me take care of—"

"Call your father," House repeated. "Snot can wait. At least she's quiet right now. Call."

Alex sucked in a deep breath and then let it all out at once. "Okay."

She picked up the phone and dialed a string of numbers – from memory, House noted.

She bit her lip, waiting for an answer, and then took a deep breath before saying, "_Hola, Papa_."

Even across the room, House could hear the stream of Spanish that came from the other end of the phone. Excited. Worried. Scolding.

He listened as Alex tried to interrupt, but her father clearly wasn't finished yet. Finally, she got in a few words. "_Quise llamarle para la Navidad_," she said. _I wanted to call you for Christmas. _

Her father's reply wasn't audible, but whatever he said made the tears that had been welling in Alex's eyes finally spill over and she turned away from House, rubbing her face with the back of her hand. House listened as the conversation progressed and Alex gave her father a limited overview of what had been happening for the past two years. She didn't talk about being admitted to Mayfield, but she mentioned having difficulties coping and needing to get help. House shrugged – he couldn't say he would have said anything different if the situation were his. She also told her father about meeting House, and about Tilly, turning around as she did and giving them both a tearful smile.

"Don't forget I want to talk to him," House prompted. Tilly helped his case by starting to become restless, squirming around and uttering a few grumpy cries. House walked closer to Alex, hoping to annoy her into handing over the phone.

Alex frowned at him and then at Tilly, but then interrupted her father, speaking in English. "Papa, would you like to talk to Greg?" There was a pause and she smiled. "Yes, that is Tilly. I will look after her while you talk to Greg, okay?" She nodded and then looked up at House. "Let me fix her up," she said. "_Be nice_," she added in a whisper, exchanging the phone for the fretting baby.

House had just put the phone to his ear when a stern, strongly accented voice began speaking. "You are taking care of my daughter?" the man on the other end of the phone demanded, leaving his displeasure in no doubt.

"Yes, and your granddaughter," House answered, rolling his eyes in effect for Alex's sake. She smiled and shrugged, clearly knowing what her father must be asking. House lowered mouthpiece and gestured to Tilly. "She can have some more Tylenol now," he said to Alex as a ruse to get her out of the room. It wasn't quite time yet, but it wouldn't hurt. "Give her half a dose and try to get her to sleep."

"Okay," Alex put Tilly to her shoulder and rubbed her back and she headed down the corridor.

"My granddaughter is sick?" the man on the phone asked.

"She has a cold, that's all."

"It is good you are a doctor then. To take care of her."

"Uh, yeah, I guess." _Had Alex mentioned that during her conversation?_ House couldn't recall her telling her father what he did, but he was too distracted to think more about it. House watched Alex, and as soon as he was sure she was out of hearing distance he marched to the windows, as far away as he could get while still being in the house. Paying attention to the phone conversation again, House could tell the man was still going on with his fatherly diatribe intended to intimidate and bully. "—daughter is special and if you—"

"Mr Marquez, shut up, I have to talk to you," House interrupted. The man fell silent, probably in pure shock, House thought. He doubted many people told a man like Marquez to shut up. "Alex has left the room to look after Tilly and I have to tell you this while she's gone because I don't want to scare her. I think Alex is in danger."

"What sort of danger?" His tone instantly told House that Marquez was taking him seriously. _Good._

House explained the car out the front of the house and the phone call.

"_H__ijo de mil putas__!_" Marquez muttered. House didn't quite understand the Argentinean Spanish, but figured out enough to know it was a nasty expletive.

"It's been going on for a while. Months ago, Alex thought she was being followed. We – _I_ – didn't believe her because, well, as she mentioned, she hadn't been coping very well. But I've seen the same car following me and now I wonder if she was right."

Marquez stayed stonily silent.

"I don't know what's going on, but if it's the same people who came after Alex's family last time, then I don't think the police can help us. What protection can you provide?"

"If Anna had only stayed in Buenos Aires like I asked, none of this would have to have happened!" Alex's father stormed. "But no, she had to return to her precious Paris and take my daughter away and look what happened! Anna, and my grandson and—"

"That doesn't help!" House spat, his fear turning to anger. "Now you have a granddaughter to protect. And to be honest, I'm not all that keen at being part of a repeat of what happened to your last son-in-law. Capiche?"

Marquez blew out a breath. "You are right. We must focus."

"Do you think the threat is real?" House asked.

"I'm sure you are fine." But his tone sounded less than confident. "I will check with my security people," he added.

"Great. And in the meantime?"

"I will . . . Wait." The phone was muffled, and he heard another stream of Spanish, spoken too quickly for House to catch more than the occasional word. After a minute, Marquez took his hand from the phone. "I am sending someone to you. A friend of mine, Javier. He is in New York, but he will come straight away. I will investigate here and I will contact Javier when I learn more."

"I don't want Alex to know about this. Not yet. She's still . . . fragile."

"I understand. Javier will be discreet. I will have him say he is a friend of yours, yes?"

"Okay." House had no idea how he could explain a new, Argentinean friend of his turning up on the doorstep, especially given that Alex knew House really only had one friend. But he'd find a way to explain it. "How long til he gets here?" House asked. Although the white car had been following him for weeks now – months if they'd been following Alex – suddenly everything felt very urgent.

"A few hours," Marquez said. "But I have arranged something else until he arrives."

House looked out the window and a few seconds later a squad car neatly pulled into place across the road. "The police?" he asked, amazed.

"It is not ideal, but it will do until Javier gets there."

House frowned, the sick feeling in his gut growing. "You think it's real, then." He realized that up to that point he really had been hoping that Alex's father would laugh and call him paranoid. The fact that he was taking things seriously, while good in a way, also made House's anxiety twist tighter in his gut. A sudden thought crossed his mind. "You've never actually used Alex in your business dealings, have you? I mean, what happened last time – it was a mistake, right?"

"It was a mistake," Marquez said, his voice tight.

Something about his tone made House uneasy. "There wasn't any reason for them to come after Alex and Kevin and Jack, was there?" he pushed.

There was a pause. "One of my . . . _associates_ . . . made a error. He will never make that mistake again."

House almost shuddered at the cold, precise tone in the man's voice. He could guess why that person wouldn't be making that mistake again.

"So you mean there _was_ something. Shit." House ran a hand over his head. "There's not this time, though is there? You haven't hidden anything in Alex's belongings, or given her some secret information?"

"The police will stay there until Javier arrives," Marquez said, his tone urgent. "I will call Javier as soon as I find out more. I must go, there is someone on another line who I must speak to."

"Okay, but—" The line went dead before House could ask for more information. House pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it in frustration.

"He hung up on you?" Alex said from behind him.

House spun around on his heels in time to see Alex walk into the room. "Real charmer, your Dad," he said. _How much had she heard?_

"What was he saying?" she asked. She seemed fine, concerned, but not hysterical. House breathed a sigh of relief.

"Just the usual overbearing father stuff about taking care of you. And then he hung up because he had another call."

Alex gave him a rueful smile. "_Oui_, that sounds familiar."

House needed a distraction, a way to keep Alex busy so she didn't notice his own turmoil. Despite the conversation with Marquez, and the cop car outside, House couldn't help feeling a desperate urge to bundle Tilly and Alex up in the car and drive . . . _somewhere_. Somewhere far away.

"Is that dinner ready yet? I'm starving," House lied. He had no idea how he'd sit and eat.

Alex smiled and nodded. "Yes. It should be just about ready. Would you like to organize the wine while I serve the meals?"

"Sure."

The two of them worked in the kitchen, side by side. House opened a vintage French red while Alex carved meat and served up vegetables. There was enough food to feed a family of ten, but after one bite House revised that number downwards significantly. Even though he was wracked by anxiety, he took delight in the beautifully prepared meal, remembering how good it had felt to be fed by Alex.

"This is fantastic," he said between mouthfuls, drinking his wine to wash it down.

"I'm glad. Wait 'til you see desert. I put a lot of effort into it. Perhaps we should have asked James to join us."

"What, my appreciation not enough for you?"

Alex shook her head. "I seem to have forgotten that sharp tongue of yours. I'm rapidly remembering it."

House started to feel bad, but then the smile on her face told him she was teasing. He grinned and teased back, "From my memory you were always pretty fond of my tongue. Especially when I use it to—"

Alex rapped the back of his hand with her fork. "Not at the dinner table!"

House chuckled and returned to devouring his meal.

After their plates were cleaned, Alex took them away and returned with a large container that House had noticed earlier in the fridge. Opening it, she lifted out a chocolate cake in the shape of a tree branch or log. She sifted powdered sugar over it to look like snow and put a little red plastic bird on top before bringing it to the table.

"What flavor does the bird add?" House quipped.

Alex rolled her eyes. "I made it to my mother's recipe. It's chocolate cake and chocolate mousse. Very rich. Decadent."

House waggled his eyebrows. "You know how I like decadence."

The doorbell rang out just as Alex slid a knife into the cake. House checked his watch – it was four-thirty, not even an hour since he'd got off the phone from Marciano Marquez. _Could Javier be here from New York already?_ House figured that a gangster's associate might not care too much for speed limits and if the traffic was light and the roads had just been cleared . . . well, it was possible. Barely, but possible.

"I'll get it," House said, mentally preparing the story for Alex. How to explain the sudden arrival of a "friend" he'd never mentioned before?

When House opened the door, surprise stunned him into silence.

"Greg House?" the man asked, although it was clear he already knew the answer.

House wasn't exactly sure what he had expected, but this person wasn't it. For a start, the guy was black. He was young, early-twenties maybe, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that sat on chubby cheeks, giving his face a babyish look. The threat of him seemed to come primarily from the sheer size of the man – he wasn't quite as tall as House, but at least twice as wide and wearing a puffy jacket that bulked him out even further. House realized he'd had some vague idea of an Al Pacino-style gentleman mobster in a suit. And yet, strangely, the guy seemed vaguely familiar.

"Javier?" House asked, once he'd pulled himself together.

The man nodded. "Can I come in? It's fucking freezing out here." He certainly wasn't Argentinean. More like Brooklyn-ean.

"Sure." House stepped back and watched as the guy stamped the snow from his boots and shook himself like a dog before stepping inside. A spray of snow flung from him, hitting House in the face and he blinked. "It's snowing again?" House asked, looking outside before closing the door.

"Like a bitch," Javier said. He shrugged off the jacket and pulled off a knitted hat, dumping them in a pile on the floor. Water started to leak from the pile immediately, the snow melting in the heated warmth of the house.

Something about the man and the situation immediately didn't sit right with House. He still felt like he should recognize the guy from somewhere, but he couldn't place where. Before he could think further, Alex called out.

"Who is it Greg?" she asked, stepping out into the living room.

House took a moment to take in the scene – a moment when everything was still okay with his world. Hopefully this was all nothing, a stupid prank, and life would go on as usual but if not . . . Alex was smiling, and her cheeks were flushed from the wine. She wore dark-colored jeans that hugged her curves and her feet were encased in fine black socks. Her hair hung in a loose curtain down her back, the waves tumbling in a way that made him ache to run his fingers through them. She wore a black, tunic-style top because he knew she was still sensitive about the weight around her middle from the baby. The top was falling off one shoulder, revealing creamy skin and a black bra strap. He did his best to memorize every inch of her, _just in case_.

"I'm Javier," the guy next to him said, while House stood there mutely.

Alex gave House a puzzled look. "You know each other?"

House shook his head to clear it and took in a breath. "Yeah, Javier works at the hospital – he's a—"

"—doctor," Javier finished.

"—janitor," House said at the same time.

Alex's frown deepened.

House gave a short laugh that he hoped sounded genuine. "A janitor with delusions of grandeur," he said, slapping Javier on the shoulder. _Clearly the guy wasn't the sharpest card in the deck_.

Javier didn't smile back, but didn't correct him.

"Anyway," House said, rushing on, "he said he didn't have any plans for Christmas so I told him he could join us. I forgot to tell you."

"Well, of course, that's fine. Come in Javier, we've just eaten, but there's more than enough food. Would you like to eat?"

"Yes please, ma'am, I'm starving." The polite, obsequious tone in the boy's voice took House by surprise, but then he realized it was to be expected. Marciano Marquez was Javier's boss; Alex was the boss's daughter. House was just the loser shtuping the boss's daughter.

Javier followed Alex's gesture towards the kitchen and House dumbly followed. Alex put her hand on his arm before he could go too far and leaned in to whisper. "I thought you said your janitor friend was called _Lou_?"

"I have many friends on the janitorial staff," House said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "We seem to have things in common."

Alex gave him a funny look, but then smiled and shook her head. "You're a very strange man." She kissed him on the cheek before turning away and heading into the kitchen. "Now, Javier, let's get you some food."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has contributed to this receiving a record number of reviews for me! I appreciate every single reader!

Just so you know, there are 27 chapters in this story. Chapter 27 also includes a small epilogue, but I'll post it all as one chapter. Apologies that this is a relatively short chapter, but it made sense to break the story this way. That and I am evil. :)

-

* * *

House leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched as Javier sat down at the table, polite and yet so awkward. Perhaps it was just the size of the man, House thought. No, he reconsidered, there was something else about the guy that just wasn't right.

As soon as Alex had put a plate down on the table, House took a couple of steps into the room.

"I think I hear Tilly," he said.

Alex frowned. "I don't hear anything."

He gestured toward the hall. "Can you check? Just in case? I'll keep Javier company."

"Okay."

As soon as Alex had disappeared, House sat down opposite the other man, leaning forward in interrogation pose. "How long have you worked for Marquez?" House asked.

Javier, in the middle of cutting up the piece of meat on his plate, didn't look up. "A while," he said.

"What do you do for him?"

At that the man did glance up, briefly. "Whadya mean?"

"I mean, what type of things do you do for him?"

He shrugged. "Things like this."

"Like what?"

"Takin' care of people."

House felt a chill go down his spine as he thought of the two ways that statement could be interpreted.

Before House could ask anything further a cell phone rang. Javier reached into his pocket and answered it, holding a brief conversation that existed only of the words "yes", "no", and "okay" from his end.

As he watched the awkward young man stuff the cell back in his pocket, that's when it hit House.

_Phone. _

That's where he'd seen the guy before.

House got up and staggered back a step in shock, his chair clattering to the floor.

"You installed the phone here," House muttered aloud.

Javier simply shrugged again.

The day they'd moved into the house, the guy doing the installation of the phone, the one who'd demanded to know where it should be placed . . . it was _him_. And then the other thing that was bothering House slipped into place: today at the front door . . . _If he'd just driven from New York, why did he have all that snow on his clothes? _

"You were right," Alex said as she walked into the kitchen, a quiet but clearly alert Tilly in her arms. She was looking down at the baby and so didn't pick up on the tense scene between House and Javier. "She was awake. Poor little thing is getting all congested."

"The baby is sick?" Javier asked, frowning with concern.

"She just has a cold," Alex answered with a smile as she glanced up at Javier. Her smile faltered as she took in House's alert posture, the chair on the floor behind him.

It had been a good ruse to get Alex out of the kitchen, House thought, only now Tilly was in the line of fire too. "Why don't you take her for a drive?" House suggested, suddenly desperate to get them away from the stranger he'd unwittingly invited into their home. "You know being in the car helps her settle. You could go to Wilson's."

Alex gave him a puzzled look. "I don't think it's come to that yet. She's quiet for now. Greg, what's going on?"

Before House could come up with any further reasons to get them to leave, the doorbell rang.

"More of your janitorial friends?" Alex asked with a nervous, crooked smile.

"I'll get it," Javier said, rising from the table.

"What?" Alex asked, her tone revealing her increasing anxiety. "Why? Greg, what's—"

Javier's bulk shadowed both Alex and House as he moved towards the door. "Why don't you guys go sit in the living room?" The words sounded like a suggestion, the tone revealed what it really was: an order.

"Greg? What's going on?" Alex's voice shook.

House was at a loss. He honestly had no idea what was going on. Was Javier the enemy or the protector? Had talking to Alex's father been a mistake? Was he trying to protect them or get rid of them? Why couldn't the goodies and baddies wear white and black hats just to keep things clear?

"I don't know," House said eventually. "Let's go sit down and talk."

Something in his voice must have given his own anxiety away, because Alex's expression suddenly turned terrified, and after wrapping her arms tightly around Tilly, she meekly followed him into the living room where they sat down close to each other on the sofa.

"Alex, try to stay calm," House began, "but your father sent Javier to protect you." _At least he hoped that was right._

"Protect me? From what?"

House didn't say anything but he could tell from the way the blood drained from Alex's face that it only took a second for her to infer the answer.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Alex shook her head as if trying to deny the fact.

House put an arm around her shoulders, bringing her and Tilly tight against him. "It's okay. We'll be safe."

He felt a shudder go through her body.

"Hey, at least it means you're not as nuts as you thought you were. There _really_ was someone following you."

Alex managed a strangled laugh and she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I can't . . ." she began, her voice catching.

"You won't have to," House said, "I promise."

Javier returned to the living room with another man, this time someone who was definitely South American. And, in contrast to Javier, this guy fitted every cliché House had about what a gangster might look like. From his tailored coat over a fine wool suit all the way to the slicked-back hair. The pair of them looked ridiculous together, though, Javier all bulk and brawn, the other guy small and elegant and precise. And yet House instantly knew which one he was more troubled by – and it wasn't the brawn.

"This is Santino," Javier said. "He works for Mr Marquez, too."

So the pretence of hospital janitor was out the window, House thought. Javier must have overheard House's explanation to Alex.

"Good afternoon," Santino said, his English strongly accented. "I am sorry to interrupt your Christmas festivities, but I am sure we can have this cleared up soon."

Alex seemed frozen and thankfully Tilly appeared unaware of the tension in the room; she lay in Alex's arms blinking sleepily.

"Have what cleared up?" House asked. In an instant his fear turned into anger. _How _dare_ these people come in and invade the first happy Christmas he'd ever had in his life? _He took his arm from around Alex and stood up, towering over Santino by at least six inches and trying to make the most of it. "I've had enough of this crap. Just tell me what's going on."

"There's no need to get angry, Dr House," Santino said, putting his hands out, palms up in what House was sure was meant to be a consoling gesture. All it did was make his blood pressure rise further.

"Yeah? I think there's every need. We have had absolutely nothing to do with Alex's father and yet somehow we're involved in something. What is going on?"

"It's a simple matter," Santino said, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. He adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, completely unconcerned by House's anger.

"A simple matter of what?"

Santino sat down on the sofa opposite, a bland smile on his face. "We just need the package that was delivered here earlier today. That's all." He waved his hand. "Please, sit down," he said, as if House were a guest.

House swore. "Marquez told me he wasn't using Alex in his business. _Bastard._"

"Well, truth be told, Mr Marquez doesn't exactly know that he is."

The meaning of that statement took a moment to sink in and, when it did, House slumped back onto the sofa next to Alex. _They worked for Alex's father but they had betrayed him. _House glanced over at Javier – the kid's blank expression gave nothing away. And then it struck him: Santino had been the man in the car. The one who had called. Guy was so arrogant, so sure of himself, that he felt he could call and wave, just to show House how vulnerable he was. It had worked.

House changed tack, trying for a conciliatory tone in his voice. "Look just take it and leave us alone. We won't tell anyone, on the condition that you leave and never involve us in this kind of shit again."

"Javier, do you know where the package is?" Santino asked coolly, ignoring House.

Javier had stood motionless through the whole exchange, his eyes on Santino. "On a table in the hallway," he said without moving a muscle.

"Get it."

Javier disappeared and returned a moment later holding the small courier box. House had completely forgotten its existence and so, by her surprised expression, had Alex.

"Excellent." Santino stood up and House didn't miss the way his suit jacket oh-so casually fell open, revealing the shoulder holster and gun.

"You can leave, I won't stop you," House said, suddenly feeling every inch of the helplessness of his situation. He had so much to lose. "We'll never say anything about this. You clearly have our phone bugged, so you can check on us."

The tension in the room was palpable and Tilly began to wail. House was aware of Alex's arms tightening around the baby, but the two men didn't blink an eyelid at the noise.

Santino gave a cold smile. "Oh, we will, don't worry. Besides, it's really much easier this time. The little one is too small to talk, and unlike my previous colleagues I have no desire to hurt her unless I have to." He paused. "Don't doubt that I will, if you are difficult," he added with a firm nod to make clear his threat. "But once you are dead, you won't say much. And anything the poor, mentally disturbed woman says is bound to be ignored once people realize she had a paranoia attack and murdered her boyfriend in confusion. How many people will believe the same thing could happen to the same woman twice? We have ways to make sure she is not a . . . _reliable_ witness." The slimy gleam in Santino's eyes left no doubt as to what kind of methods he had in mind.

House heard Alex make a choking noise, the first utterance she'd made since they'd moved into the living room.

The next few moments happened in an instant, and yet time somehow slowed down so that House was able to note each action as it occurred.

Santino reached into his suit jacket. The Christmas tree lights glinted off the gun in bizarre incongruence. ouseHousnhhkHouse had time to think about how many times a gun had been pointed at him. He should be used to it by now.

There was a blur of movement next to Santino. The cardboard package fell to the floor with a hollow clunk and bounced twice.

Tilly's wailing stopped abruptly at the same time as House felt her small, warm body land in his lap with a soft thud.

A weight over him. Hard bone connecting with his chin. Darkness.

Two gunshots.

Silence.

Liquid warmth.

Noise and activity all seemed to come back at once.

A muffled whimper and a squirming in his lap.

Pain.

House realized he'd screwed his eyes shut when he'd seen Santino squeeze the trigger of the gun pointed at him. So much for the big, brave hero. He opened his eyes and felt a moment of pure panic when he couldn't see, before realizing that something was covering his eyes.

Hair.

Alex's hair.

The weigh on him was Alex, her head rested on his shoulder, her torso lying over his. And between their bodies Matilda gasped for breath.

"Help me," House muttered, not sure who he was talking to. He pushed against Alex, but his hands slipped, slimy and wet.

Then someone else's hands were there, lifting the weight from him and House sucked in a deep breath. His attention went straight to the bundle in his lap: Tilly lay there, terrifyingly still for a second, but then her face screwed up, her mouth opened and she howled.

House's relief was overwhelming but he squashed the instinct to hold Tilly to him and comfort her. Instead he picked her up and lay her carefully on the sofa where she kicked her legs and waved her arms in protest. He gasped in horror when he took his hands away from her and saw she was covered in blood, but then quickly realized the blood was on _his_ hands, and not coming from her body.

He turned away from the baby and was momentarily stunned by what he saw.

Santino lay on his side, arms sprawled, half his head missing.

Javier was holding Alex, trying to lay her down from the strange, crumpled position she was in.

"Man, I wasn't fast enough. Help her," Javier said, glancing up at him.

Javier lifted Alex as if she weighed nothing and lay her flat on the carpet. House instantly saw the bullet exit wound through the right side of her chest. He looked down at himself, surprised to find his left arm bleeding copiously. From a surface wound.

Alex had protected him. And Tilly. She'd done for them what she hadn't been able to do for Kevin or Jack.

"Come on!"

Javier's urging broke the spell House had fallen into and he quickly knelt on the floor beside Alex, the hurt of his own arm barely registering. He put his slimy fingers to Alex's neck, checking for a pulse while he yelled at Javier.

"Get an ambulance here, now! And get me something to stop the bleeding. Towels, something!" House pulled his own shirt off, bunching it up and pushing it under Alex where the bullet had entered her body through her back. He pressed his palm hard against the exit wound in her chest.

House was vaguely aware of Javier's movement, but all his concentration was focused on Alex. He struggled to hear her breathing over Tilly's crying, leaning down until his ear was against her mouth and then pressed to her chest. The gasping wheeze and the sucking wound in her chest told him she had a pneumothorax. Towels appeared just as the pulse he'd been monitoring in her throat became so weak it was barely distinguishable. Grabbing Javier's hand, House pulled him to the floor and put a towel over the chest wound. "Put your hand here," House shouted. "Push hard."

As soon as Javier's hand was in place, House started CPR, watching as Alex's blood pumped out of her, as her lips turned blue, as her pulse faded and disappeared.

"Don't you do this to me," House growled at Alex. "Not after all this. Not after all the shit we've been through."

"Oh man, she's dead, isn't she?" Javier asked, sitting back.

"Don't let up the pressure!"

Javier leaned forward again, holding both hands clamped down on Alex's chest. "The boss is going to kill me."

"Not until after I have," House muttered, leaning down again to breathe puffs of air into Alex's blue mouth.

A siren sounded in the distance.

"I gotta go," Javier said.

"You're not going anywhere," House said. "Alex? Do you hear me? You're not going anywhere."


	26. Chapter 26

The tiara was biting into her head, just above her ears, hard enough to bring on a headache. Alex ached to adjust it, but she knew it just wasn't done and she'd earn a stern rebuke from her father if she did. She'd just have to suffer through until the ceremony was over.

She stifled a yawn.

She'd been taking part in ceremonies like this since she was a child. Back then, it had been fun. She'd loved the dressing up, the pomp and circumstance. If she'd yawned or fidgeted, everyone had thought it was cute.

Then, as a teenager, Alex did it for her grandmother. Because her grandmother genuinely enjoyed these things, because – especially later, when she was ill – they made her smile in a way she rarely did with the pain she suffered through from her cancer.

Not like her father. He clearly persisted with the whole thing only because of the power rush it gave him. He and her brother sat there, glaring at everyone and yet secretly enjoying every minute. Her mother sat frozen, her expression unreadable, and Alex knew she'd gone to that secret place inside and wasn't even present in the room.

Off to one side, Frederick stood impassively, looking out at the crowd. Alex knew he was sending sidelong glances her way. She could feel them, like a wash of oily water over her, each time he did it.

It was the annual Gratitude Day, a special yearly feast day in Evenovia, when each member of the gentry came to express their thanks to the royal family for a year of prosperity – even when the year hadn't been so prosperous, like the one they'd just been through. Each member of the court presented the royal family with a gift as an expression of thanks. In Alex's grandmother's day, the Queen had encouraged token gifts of food or craft items. And her subjects, most of them half in love with their beautiful and magnanimous Queen, had toiled for hours baking cakes, crafting wooden toys, or knitting hats.

Now that her father had taken over the throne, the gifts had changed. Suddenly those formerly treasured handicrafts had become sneered at. Instead, courtiers were bringing gifts of gold and jewelry and even electronic gadgetry. Each more expensive than the last.

But all of a sudden, the pattern was broken. A woman in what Alex recognized as last year's fashion approached the throne and bowed low. "Your Majesty, unfortunately our estates have had a bad year, and we have not had the harvest we expected. As a gift to you I bring a cake, made with produce from our farm, and baked and decorated by my own hand."

The woman gestured and a servant appeared holding a silver platter on which sat a chocolate cake, molded into the shape of a log, a small red bird sitting on top. Powdered sugar had been sifted over it to look like snow.

"A cake," the king sneered. "Fine. Do better next year."

As Alex looked at the cake a strange feeling washed over her body. She felt faint, and then a shudder wracked through her, making her wrap her arms around herself and double over in pain.

"Alexandra?"

She felt her mother's hand on her arm, and slowly Alex blinked and stood straight again, the feeling gone as suddenly as it had appeared. She looked around to find her family – and Frederick – all staring at her with expressions of faint disgust. Only her mother's face showed concern.

"I'm fine," Alex said. "I apologize for the interruption."

The king waved and the procession continued as before.

More courtiers, more expensive gifts. A man with a blood-red velvet cape presented the King with gold skull, the hollows of the eyes fitted with glittering precious stones. A woman with bared breasts handed over a diamond shaped like a phallus. An insanely grinning man handed over a bag bulging with gold coins.

Then, once again, the pattern was broken. A man approached the king, limping heavily. He knelt with difficulty. "Sire, I have not had a good year. After my injury I was unable to work and my farm was lost to the financiers. Now I am penniless. All I have left to give you is my cane."

The man held out his wooden walking stick and, after a pause to convey his displeasure, the King waved and the cane was taken away.

As she watched the cane carried out of the room by a servant, Alex felt the same sensation again. A faintness, as if the world around her was dimming, followed by a sharp, seizing pain, like an electric current going through her. Again, she doubled over, and she could hear the whispering of the court around her as she struggled for breath.

"Princess, are you not fit for your duties?" her father asked, his tone sharp.

Alex struggled to pull herself together, standing straight again and smoothing out her skirt. She took a deep breath and gave her father a short bow. "My apologies Father, I am fine. Please continue."

The whispering subsided and the procession began again as Alex tried to figure out what was going on. She felt fine, apart from those strange seizures. Maybe she needed to see the court doctor. Perhaps the stress of trying to avoid Frederick's wandering hands was finally breaking her.

As Alex turned her attention back to the ceremony, a man walked up the red carpeted aisle, a baby in his arms. "Princess Alexandra?" he called out.

The gathered court gasped – it was a complete break of protocol. Not only had he yelled out at a member of the royal family, he'd addressed the Princess before addressing the King! What arrogance!

Alex felt dizzy and she put a hand on her mother's throne to steady herself.

"Princess Alexandra!" he called again.

Almost against her will, Alex found herself taking a step forward to see the man more clearly.

"What is going on?" her father demanded. "Guards, get this man out of here!"

"No! Let him approach," Alex said, knowing that her public contradiction of her father would earn her a hefty penalty later.

The guards who had moved forward at her father's command hesitated and Alex stepped down from the podium where the royal family was gathered, walking down the red carpet towards the strange man. The court erupted in whispering – surely nothing this exciting had happened on Gratitude Day since someone had brought the Queen a flock of trained doves that, startled by the number of people and bright lights, had rather distressingly beaten themselves to death trying to fly out the closed windows.

"Princess Alexandra, I am here with a message for you," the man said as she approached.

He looked familiar, somehow, but Alex couldn't place him. She took a few more steps until they were close enough to reach out and touch each other.

"Sir, you are very bold to appear like this. It must be an important message."

"It is a matter of life and death," he said gravely. The baby in his arms twisted around and smiled at Alex.

"Your child is beautiful."

"This is my son," he said.

The little boy reached out to Alex, squirming in his father's arms. Without really understanding why, Alex put her hands out and took the baby, settling him on her hip. He snuggled tight to her, instantly comfortable, resting his head on her breast.

"What is this message?" Alex asked.

"It is about a decision you must make."

Alex felt one of those same shudders take her, but this time the pain wasn't so bad, it seemed to come from a distance. She sucked in a breath and then it passed. Somehow, she knew, being close to this man and his son was making the pain go away.

"You are saving me," she said, uncertain what her words meant even as they passed her lips.

The man smiled and Alex's heart grew warm. She couldn't help smiling back, suddenly filled with a happy, peaceful feeling. The child she was holding was so comforting and reassuring, she felt like she never wanted to let him go.

"I can save you. Or I cannot. The decision is yours."

"I don't know," Alex said, uncertain what he meant.

He smiled gently at her confusion. "You can come with me or you can stay here."

"I want to go with you," Alex said instantly. _An escape from her royal prison? A release from her promised future of unhappiness with Frederick? Of course she wanted to leave. _

"Be sure you know what it is you are leaving behind, Princess," the man said, his smile turning grim.

"I am Princess Alexandra Maria Feliciana Di Giorgio, Princess of Evenovia," she said. "I know what I am leaving behind."

The man didn't say anything, but the look he gave her was sad, almost tearful.

A wave of pain swept over Alex and she gasped, but even her in-drawn breath didn't ease it. Her chest felt hot and tight and agonizing, and she realized she couldn't breathe. Each breath came shallowly, barely giving her enough oxygen to remain standing. She swayed and the baby in her arms cried out in surprise.

She started to struggle for breath, and the man just stood, waiting patiently, as if he expected it.

"You . . . should . . . take the baby . . ." she said between gasps.

"He's safe," the man said. "He's with me."

"But . . . what about . . ." Alex started.

"Your daughter?" the man finished.

_Her daughter? _Alex swayed again, pain shooting through her, and this time the man stepped forward. He wrapped her in his arms and eased her to the floor, resting her body against himself, shifting the baby so they both shared his weight.

"It's time to decide Alex. You can come with me, or you can stay here," he said gently, his voice soft in her ear.

Alex shook her head. _Why would she want to stay here? _She looked around at the gathered court, all the courtiers and servants and guards and even her family, staring at her. None of them moved to help, no one called for the doctor, no one questioned her lying in the middle of the throne room in a man's arms, gasping for breath.

"Oh, Kevin," she said, wondering how she knew the man's name. And yet as she said it, a thousand emotions swamped over her, drowning her in their intensity. Love, grief, pain, loss, joy. It was too much, far too much. "I can't . . ." she whispered, barely enough air inside her to form the words.

"You can, if you want to, my love," he said.

A light in the corner of the room grew brighter and brighter, taking over Alex's field of vision until it washed out the throne room and every person in it, even her father. Even Frederick.

Then, a face. Haloed against the light. It was so bright she couldn't make out the features, only the eyes. The blue eyes.

Her fallen angel.

And Alex suddenly remembered the angelic little girl who'd inherited those same blue eyes from her father.

"If you really love _him_, you'll let him save you," Kevin said quietly.

Alex could feel her body grow weak from lack of air. Her lungs burned with the need to breathe, and yet somehow she couldn't. She suddenly understood the man's – Kevin's – message, and knew the choice she had to make. It had nothing to do with a royal family or an enforced marriage to Frederick – they were all merely illusions. And yet, if none of that was real, then what was this?

For a moment, she closed her eyes and soaked in the familiar, long-lost feeling of being wrapped in her husband's arms, of holding her son close to her. It was so good. Perfect. Almost.

She twisted her head to look up at her husband and gave him a sad smile. "I have to stay, Kevin."

He nodded. "I know."

She bent down and pressed a kiss to the baby's head, inhaling his familiar scent. She felt the tears bunch in a knot in her throat.

"It's going to hurt, my love," Kevin said, his arms tightening around her.

Alex nodded and realized how fast and shallow her breathing had become. "Hold . . . me . . ." she panted.

"I will. I always will."

Alex's chest exploded in pain, an agony so intense she could hear it buzzing in her ears. And then the world went black.

-

* * *

-

House looked up when his office door opened, knowing his weariness was etched on his face. If it was another visitor full of sympathy and empty words, he was seriously going to throw something.

"Hi."

The one-word greeting shocked House into silence, not so much at the salutation itself, but at the man giving it.

"Javier?" House managed to say finally. As his voice returned, so did his anger, and he reached for the nearest object and flung it violently at the man. As it turned out it was his over-sized red-and-grey ball, and all it did was hit the wall next to the large man and bounce off ineffectually.

Javier held up his hands in defense. "Hey, I just wanted to talk to you."

"Get the fuck out," House spat.

"Marquez didn't send me."

House fell back into his chair, limp with fury, but still aware enough to be careful that the chair didn't roll into the car seat tucked under his desk where a sleeping Tilly lay. He hadn't let the baby out of his sight for three days now. She even accompanied him to the men's room.

"And that's supposed to be a good thing?" House asked.

"I'm sorry, man," Javier said, his voice low, as he approached the desk.

"For what happened? Or for running out?" House hadn't seen the other man since the paramedics had arrived. Javier had got up to answer the door to them and never returned.

"I had to leave. One of the boss's rules."

"Oh sure. I guess he's happy with himself."

"He's pretty broken up."

"Poor bastard," House muttered, not in the least sympathetic.

"Santino was his friend."

"Some friend."

"Exactly." Javier sat down uninvited, but House was too tired and too drained to protest. An uncomfortable silence descended.

"You'll be safe now," Javier said eventually.

"Excuse me for not feeling very reassured by that."

"Well, you should. Marquez won't even monitor you anymore."

"What?" _Marquez? Alex's father was having them followed?_

"Longest surveillance operation I've ever done. Over a year of trailing you both, monitoring your phone calls. Learned a lot, though," he added thoughtfully.

"It was _you_ following us?" House managed to sputter.

Javier shrugged. "Sometimes me, sometimes other people. Sometimes Santino."

"Wait, you mean Marquez had his own daughter under surveillance?" House asked, wanting to be sure he had it right. And yet he remembered now that Alex's father had somehow known he was a doctor without being told. Bastard must know everything there was to know about him.

"For your protection," Javier said. "He'd heard that some fuck was gonna to try a repeat of what happened last time, 'cause Alex weren't being monitored by the FBI anymore. They stopped a year after, well, after the last time. Marquez only had his real trusted people on the job – except he didn't know that it was Santino who was doing the planning. He didn't know it was Santino who was behind it last time."

"But you did?"

"I suspected. And then Marquez called _me_ in after you talked to him, 'cause he didn't like what you told him about Santino waving to you from the car. I was gonna be with my family for the holidays, but I hadn't gone, I stayed close because I suspected Santino was gonna to make his move on Christmas. I couldn't let Santino know I was watching you too, though, so had to sit out in the snow in your neighbor's yard and wait long enough to make it seem I'd come from the city. Fuck it was cold, man." Javier gave a shudder at the memory. "Santino was pissed that Marquez called _me_ instead of him. Because they're so close he expected that if anything like that happened, Marquez would call _him_ as the point man, not me. So he had to explain what was going on to me – offered to buy me in if I did as he said."

"And you went along with it—"

"Yeah, just until I had a chance to take him out."

"You should have done it sooner," House said, his voice flat, knowing that it was pointless to wish otherwise.

"Yeah, I shouldda."

Silence descended again for a moment.

"What was in the package?" House asked, realizing it was the one last unanswered piece of the puzzle.

"Nothin'."

"What do you mean?"

Javier shrugged. "Nothin'. It was empty. Marquez intercepted it before it was sent. He knew somethin' was goin' on. Just didn't know who was behind it."

"But he still allowed it to be sent to Alex. To _our home_."

Javier shrugged. "Yeah."

House shook his head in disbelief.

"I've done somefink for you." Javier looked down at his hands. "Don't tell the boss, but I had Alex listed permanently as a 'person of interest' with the FBI. I gotta contact there. It means you'll be monitored. Your mail might get opened, sometimes your phone calls will be listened in to. But no one from Argentina will ever try anything like this ever again. Not even Marquez. It'll be too risky."

"Thanks. I think."

"Just don't go ordering no illegal porn or nothing like that," Javier tried to joke.

House didn't laugh.

"And I'm gonna keep my eye on you guys – nothin' intrusive or nothin', but I'll just watch out for ya."

House didn't know what to say. _Thank you_ seemed both unnecessary and inappropriate.

"Well . . . I gotta go." Javier got to his feet and stood, shuffling awkwardly. "I gotta question for you, though, before I go. Do you think . . . ?"

House stared up blankly.

"I know it sounds stupid, but . . . I liked listening in on your calls. It was real interesting. Sometimes after I listened to you talking I'd go on the internet and look up the shit you were talking about. Man, you get some weird stuff! Anyway, I was thinkin', maybe I might go back to college. I'm too dumb to be a doctor, but maybe I could be a nurse? I like lookin' after people, and I'm okay with blood and stuff . . ." Javier trailed off.

House opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Anyway, if I do, and if I graduate, do you reckon you might help me out with a job? Just put in a good word for me or somefink?"

House stared up at the man in front of him – just a boy, really, a baby hitman with a gangster past who wanted to become a nurse. It was too absurd for words. "Yeah, sure," he said, shrugging. Who knew? It couldn't hurt to keep someone like Javier owing him a favor.

Javier looked relieved. "Thanks, man, appreciate it. Well, see ya. Take care. You and the bubba."

House watched as the guy left, his frame large enough that he had to turn slightly sideways to get out the door. House sat back in the chair and ran his hands over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. He looked down at the car seat tucked next to his feet and to the sleeping infant curled up inside. Her breathing was louder than normal, her nose and chest still congested by her cold, but the noise was reassuring, rhythmic and comforting.

"Shall we go visit Mommy?" House asked the sleeping baby.

Not surprisingly, she didn't answer.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N:** Thought I'd do the notes and credits here instead of at the end. Hope you enjoy this long final installment of the story and how House and Alex's journey concludes. Don't forget to leave me a review and tell me what you thought! I have just updated my blog too, so take a wander over there when you're done (address is on my profile page).

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing along the way. To use a uniquely Aussie saying, "I loves yas all!"

In this chapter I reference Arthur Rimbaud, _Illuminations_, _Dawn_, 1886. I sourced the English translation from: www mag4 net / Rimbaud/poesies/Dawn. html (put in the dots and remove the spaces as required if you want to go read more of those beautiful words).

-

* * *

-

**Chapter 27**

"Good morning Dr House."

"Morning."

The senior RN in the ICU was one of the few nurses in the hospital that House didn't hate on principle. Which had come in kind of handy over the past few days. House had also found that carrying a baby around with him was conducive to more friendly relationships with other medical staff and, for once, he was glad of it. It didn't hurt to keep them on edge around him, but it also wasn't a bad thing that they weren't actively trying to sabotage him. Considering Alex's life lay in the balance.

"Want me to take the baby?" the nurse asked.

House liked her, but that didn't mean he'd bothered to learn or remember her name. "Nah, I'll keep her with me while she's asleep," he said.

The nurse walked with him over to Alex's bedside and House put Tilly's car seat down next to a chair before walking to the end of the bed and picking up the chart.

"No change overnight," the nurse said, all business-like. "Her wound is healing well and her bloods and sats are good, but there's still no sign of consciousness."

House checked the chart, a little uselessly given that the nurse's update was completely accurate. Nothing to do but wait and watch. Watch the monitors. Watch the various tubes of fluid going in and out of Alex's body. Watch the hole in her chest and make sure it healed; wait for the lung that had been punctured, the ribs that had been shattered, the blood vessels that had been blown open, all to repair themselves. And the brain, Alex's brain that had been starved of oxygen for so long – maybe too long . . .

Santino had been aiming for House's heart, which was strange really, House thought. He would have figured a professional like Santino would have gone for the head. Then again, maybe he had been and Javier's bullet had been the first to leave its chamber and enter its victim, causing Santino's aim to drop. He'd never know. All House knew was that a bullet that would have entered the centre of his chest and most likely killed him instead entered the right side of Alex's chest through her shoulder blade. The bullet exited just above her right breast, piercing her lung and shattering her ribs along the way, before scraping through House's arm on its way to its final destination somewhere in the sofa cushions.

His arm was still bandaged and throbbed dully; it probably needed attending to. Thankfully the bruise on his jaw had begun to fade which meant the comments had stopped. People had been assuming that the thugs had punched him, and House hadn't corrected that assumption. It seemed unmanly to admit that it had been caused by Alex's head had connecting with his face when she'd thrown herself over him and their daughter as a human shield.

He replaced the chart and sat heavily in the chair next to the bed. He might take a nap, he thought. Especially given Tilly was still sleeping. The ICU was noisy and busy, but over the past few days he'd found it a restful kind of bustle, one that was comforting and conducive to drifting into a doze.

"Is Dr Wilson bringing your coffee today?" the nurse asked.

House shook his head. Wilson had made a point of telling House that he'd be tied up that morning with patients – his schedule was backed up to the point of insanity after he'd spent the first two days of Alex's coma with House in the ICU.

The nurse disappeared and House closed his eyes, drifting to sleep. He woke up just a few minutes later when she returned with a cardboard coffee cup and a small tray of first aid equipment. She handed House the cup and then rolled a stool over to where he sat, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt to his shoulder, clucking her tongue as she attended to the festering bandage.

House sat and sipped his coffee, letting her tend to him without saying a word, just wincing at the sting when she daubed antiseptic on his wound.

After a few scolding words about how he should know better, the nurse re-wrapped his arm in fresh gauze. "I'm off, but I'll be back on shift in the early morning," she said, as she walked off. "I'll call you if anything changes when I get back in. Have a good day."

A _good_ day? Another day sitting and wondering when the time would come to make the call. Turn the machines off? Or not? How long was too long, to wait? He'd had to "kill" Alex once before, when he'd forced her to see that her assumed identity was false. Would he be forced to do it for real?

As he closed his eyes to try to sleep, other questions invaded his mind. What was Alex thinking? _Was_ she thinking? What would she want? Would she want him to end it for her? Was that the definition of loving someone? More practically, was it really good for Tilly to be carted around a hospital like this, exposing her to who knew what? House knew he'd eventually relax enough to let his child out of his sight, but that time hadn't come quite yet. Still, Javier's visit had helped on that score, he realized.

And then he slept.

-

* * *

-

It was dark.

And then it was a different kind of dark.

It took a moment before Alex realized what the difference was. The difference was noise.

She summoned up every ounce of her strength and managed to open her eyes for a moment, blinking. It was still dark, but it wasn't the total blackness – blankness – that she'd been living in up to then. There were things, shapes, objects.

"Hello," a voice said.

Alex blinked in surprise, the only movement her body seemed capable of.

"There's someone who'll be very happy to see you. Two someones, actually."

Alex tried to reply, but nothing happened. Her body wouldn't obey her brain.

"It's very early, but I think I'll call him," the voice said, almost to herself.

The shapes and objects around her began to coalesce and Alex was able to make sense of them. The pastel blue shape to her right was a person, and it was that person who was speaking.

"Can you hear me?" the person asked. "Can you blink, twice for yes and once for no?"

Alex blinked twice, wondering why the person wanted her to communicate with her eyelids. Surely she should just talk. She tried to do that, but again, nothing happened.

"That's excellent," the voice said, sounding very pleased.

The blue person disappeared and Alex suddenly felt very tired. She tried hard to remember what had happened to her, but her thoughts were scattered and fleeting, hard to hold on to. It was Christmas day, presents and food. Sex under the Christmas tree, she thought with a smile, although she couldn't tell if her mouth was moving. And then visitors. And . . . _a throne room? _

She must have slept for a while, but when she woke up again it wasn't the peaceful, swimming out of darkness like it had been before. This time it was violent and painful and frightening. She was drowning. She tried desperately to take in air, but something was stopping her, something was in her throat, closing off her airway. She felt consumed by panic, which was only increased by the discovery that she couldn't move.

"Hey, shh, you're okay." The voice from earlier was back. Alex opened her eyes and the blue person was there, leaning over her. _A nurse_. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but this is a good thing. Just relax. There's a machine breathing for you. Relax and let it. You'll be fine."

Alex struggled to let go, to let herself surrender to the mechanical assistance, but it was incredibly difficult to suppress her impulse to breathe. Her entire body was consumed by the need.

After what felt like hours, the nurse spoke again. "Okay, we need to get that out. Let me call someone. I'll be right back."

_Hurry,_ Alex urged in her head.

Again, it felt like hours, but then the nurse returned, with other people, and there was a flood of words around her, conversation, argument, that she couldn't make sense of. Then she was told to blow out hard and Alex wondered how to do that, given she couldn't breathe, and then, suddenly she could. She took a deep breath in and then out, but it caught it in her throat. She coughed and lights of pain exploded behind her eyes.

"Breathe again, Alex, in and out," the nurse said. Alex could feel her squeeze her hand in encouragement.

Alex did as she was told and breathed, in and out, and the pain built, excruciating in its rawness. She tried to cry out, but all that happened was a funny moan that sounded vaguely inhuman.

"That's good. We'll give you something for the pain now."

Alex blinked twice and felt tears roll down her temples and run over the tips of her ears. A plastic mask settled down over her face and Alex half wished she'd never woken up. But then things loosened, her chest felt freer, and the darkness came back. Alex dived into it without hesitation.

-

* * *

-

"But she was conscious, responsive," the nurse insisted.

"It's been more than forty-eight hours since then and there's been no further sign of improvement."

"You think she's in a vegetative state?"

"It's possible."

House figured that it was because he was a doctor that Alex's attending and the RN felt they could discuss Alex's condition in such brutal terms in front of him instead of the polite, condescending layman's terms they'd no doubt usually use in front of a patient's family members. He honestly wasn't sure which he preferred. If they were being gentle and obscuring the facts he'd no doubt be annoyed, and his reputation probably assured them of that. But interestingly, he was finding the blunt conversation distressing to listen to.

"Pointless debate," House interrupted brusquely. "Knowing that makes no difference to her care at this point, so shut up."

"But House," the other doctor protested, "we need to think about the future. Physical therapy, permanently inserting a feeding tube, long-term care."

"I'm not making any of those decisions now, so it doesn't matter," he said firmly, reining in a sudden urge to send the upstart to the floor with a sharp right hook.

The expression on the other man's face told House that he'd suddenly remembered that House was not just another doctor called in for a consult, but the patient's partner. "I'm sorry," he began, "it's just . . ."

_It's just that no one in this hospital is remotely used to treating me like a human being. _House's limited patience snapped. "Get out."

The nurse and doctor retreated and House sat by Alex's bedside in silence for a while as the ICU did its usual bustle around him. He'd finally thought everything was going to be fine. The nurse he liked had called him at four am the day before yesterday to say that Alex had regained consciousness, but by the time he'd come in, she'd slipped away again. There had been no improvement since then, except for the fact that she continued to breathe on her own. The nurse insisted that Alex had been responsive – blinking answers, but House privately had doubts. He knew what it looked like when medical personnel became personally invested in a patient and the ICU RN definitely had done so with Alex. Perhaps because she'd cared for Tilly a few times, helped to settle her when House hadn't wanted to leave Alex's side, or perhaps because for some strange reason she didn't hate House. Who knew? The point was that the nurse was easily susceptible to seeing improvement, to seeing a response, when there wasn't anything actually there.

The other doctor was probably right. It was time for House to make decisions about Alex's long term future. It just seemed so unfair. She'd worked so hard to rebuild her life . . . Scratch that. _He'd_ worked so hard to rebuild their lives! Their family! Why he should be surprised that life hadn't turned out to be fair, House wasn't sure – he'd never expected it to be so before now. But now his life was different in every possible way, so he figured it must be a side effect of all that change . . . A sudden, unexplained – and ultimately futile – optimism.

House was stirred from his thoughts as a woman approached him, one fingernail gripped between her front teeth in an ultimate display of uncertainty. Her blonde hair was cut in a short, mannish style, and she wore navy pants, a white button-down shirt and sensible shoes, with a leather satchel hitched crossways over her shoulder. _Lesbian._ She clearly did not dress to interest the eyes of males.

"Are you Greg House?" she asked, her voice soft but raspy.

"Who are you?" he asked without answering. House didn't have to check her fingers for nicotine stains – the gravelly voice and the lines around her mouth revealed a faithful dedication to keeping Philip Morris in business.

She gasped when she stepped close enough to the bed to see Alex. Her hand covered her mouth in surprise. House was used to it now; he'd forgotten that the sight of Alex's bandaged and monitor-studded body could be a shock.

"I had no idea . . . I heard on the news and I thought it couldn't be, not again . . . Oh my God."

The woman looked in imminent danger of fainting, but House couldn't be bothered getting up. If she passed out, there were plenty of medical personnel around who would help.

"Who are you?" House repeated.

His question seemed to penetrate her shock and she took a deep breath and turned away from Alex to look at him. "I'm sorry, my name's Kate. Kate Foster. We spoke a couple of times on the phone."

_The mysterious Kate! _So _this_ was the woman who had lunch with Alex once a week – the only friend she had in Princeton. Having judged the woman's sexuality, House couldn't help wondering if there was another motive to Kate's care and concern.

"So _you're_ Kate," he said, once again letting his eyes run over her, head to toe.

The woman sneered at his look and looked about to do something threatening before she remembered her surroundings and seemed to pull herself in check. "Yes, I'm Kate," she said. But then she couldn't seemed to hold herself in any longer. "And your girlfriend is in that hospital bed so it's rude to check out other women," she bit out. "Besides, as I'm sure you've probably surmised, I don't play for your team."

House instantly decided he liked Kate. "I play for lots of teams," he couldn't help rejoining.

"Not mine, you don't." She gave him a reluctant smile that let him know that he'd passed her test. Her smile faded quickly, however. "How's she doing?" Kate turned back to the bed.

House glanced quickly at Alex. "She's been unconscious for days. We don't really know if she's ever going to recover." It helped to say that quickly, so the meaning didn't sink in.

"What? Why? I thought she was shot?"

"She was shot in the chest. She stopped breathing and her heart stopped. It might have been for too long – we don't know how damaged her brain is."

"Oh." Kate looked as shattered by that news as House knew he should feel. Except, somehow, he didn't.

"What took you so long?" House asked. "She's been in here nearly a week."

"I was away for the holidays – visiting friends. I didn't hear about it until I got back this morning and was reading the newspapers from while I was away."

House shrugged one shoulder in a way that didn't quite let her off the hook.

The noise of a baby's wakeful cry sounded out.

"They have babies in here too?" Kate asked, looking around.

"Just one," House said, leaning down to look to under Alex's bed – the safest place for Tilly's car seat, he'd found. He reached in and scooped out Tilly, putting her to his shoulder and rubbing her back. She instantly quieted.

"Is that . . . ?" Kate said, her eyes wide.

"This is Matilda. Tilly. Tilly, this is Kate," House said, turning the baby around to face the woman. Tilly blinked slowly as she stared at her.

"O-o-ooh, she's beautiful," Kate said. "Can I hold her?"

"No," House said bluntly. The only other people that had touched Tilly since Christmas Day were Wilson and the nurse and even then, only when absolutely necessary.

"Okay." Kate shrugged as if it were no big deal, and House decided he really did quite like her. She twisted around to pull the satchel to her front and rummaged around in it for a while before pulling out a battered paperback. "I brought in one of Alex's books from her office," she said, handing it to House.

"What is it?" House took it with the hand that wasn't holding Tilly.

"Rimbaud," she said with a smile. "It looked pretty battered, so I figured it was probably a favorite. I thought she might like to read it . . ." She trailed off, realizing it was patently obvious Alex wouldn't be reading anything in her current condition.

House gave a crooked smile as he looked at the book. _Illuminations_. He'd heard Alex mention it several times, so he thought Kate was probably right about it being a favorite. But the futility of it struck him sharply. "Thanks. As soon as she's up and about I'll put it on her required reading list."

Kate didn't flinch. "Maybe you could read it to her?"

House shrugged.

Kate stood there a moment longer and then she closed up her satchel and took a step back. "Okay, well, I'm going. It was . . . _nice_ to finally meet you and to meet Tilly. I . . . I might come back. If that's okay."

House shrugged again. Kate obviously took that as assent because she nodded. "Good. Well, take care." She turned around and left.

House put the book down on the unit next to Alex's bed and turned his attention to Tilly who'd began to squirm against him. He knew that meant she'd soon be wailing to be fed.

He got up and headed to his office where a temporary "Tilly feeding station" had been set up in the kitchenette in the conference room. He walked more slowly than usual, his leg aching, a sense of heaviness settling over him. For some reason Kate's visit had driven home the futility of his bedside vigil. Perhaps the ICU doctor had been right – it was time to move on, to think about the future. He had Tilly to think of. And it wasn't like he wasn't used to being a single parent.

His team barely looked up when he entered, prepared a bottle of formula and then went and sat in the Eames chair in his office to feed his daughter.

He was so tired he felt broken.

-

* * *

-

That evening House finally agreed to let Tilly out of his sight. Wilson had appeared in the ICU and convinced House that it was time for Tilly to sleep at home, in her own crib. He promised to stay there with her, for as long as House needed, and watch over her. Wilson said he thought it was important that House broke his obsessive attachment to the baby. According to Wilson, House needed to trust the world again and move forward.

House was too tired to mount a sensible argument against Wilson's usual psychobabble, in the end deciding it was easier to surrender. So House was on his own in the ICU. The RN he liked had gone off shift a few hours earlier. Things were surprisingly quiet – there were only two other patients in the ward and both of those were also comatose so they made no noise apart from the mechanical and electronic sounds of the equipment keeping them alive.

The book Kate had brought in still sat on the cabinet next to Alex's bed. With a heavy sigh, House picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He remembered Christmas Eve night, how he and Alex had lain in bed as he'd read to Tilly – before their world had imploded, again. House opened the book to the index page, a list of dozens of poems. One called "Bottom" caught his eye and he sniggered, even as he realized it was about Shakespeare's _Midsummer Night's Dream_ character. He had no idea which one to choose, so instead he let the book fall open randomly, and it parted comfortably about one-third of the way through. It was in English, House realized. Just as well. He knew enough conversational French to trade insults, order coffee and a pastry, and ask for sex in half a dozen inventive ways, but that was about the extent of his knowledge. If only Rimbaud had been Chinese . . .

"_I__embraced the summer dawn. Nothing yet stirred on the face of the palaces. The water is dead. The shadows still camped in the woodland road,_" House began to read, the words sitting heavy inside him. The futility of the effort didn't escape him, but he had to do something. He'd decided while sitting and feeding Tilly that he needed to move on. Tonight would be the last night he'd spend by Alex's bedside. He wouldn't give up hope – not completely – and he'd spend the rest of his days striving to find a way to "cure" her, to bring her back, but Wilson was right. Life had to go on. If nothing else Tilly would make sure of that – she'd keep growing and soon, she'd need him for more than just feeding and cleaning. She'd need him to teach her, to guide her, to show her how the world worked. House didn't want to have to do that by himself, but he had little choice.

"_I walked, waking quick warm breaths, and gems looked on, and wings rose without a sound. The first venture was, in a path already filled with fresh, pale gleams, a flower who told me her name._"

Nice. House found himself becoming lost in the story, in the words and language. He didn't have Alex's appreciation for literature, his bookshelves were filled with non-fiction tomes, but something about the cadence of the words, the rhythm of the phrasing, brought to mind music and in that way House found it was almost like playing the piano.

"_I laughed at the blonde wasserfall that tousled through the pines: on the silver summit I recognized the goddess. Then, one by one, I lifted up her veils. In the lane, waving my arms. Across the plain, where I notified the cock._" The spell was broken and House sniggered again. _How did Alex read this shit with a straight face? Notify the cock, indeed._

He was so absorbed by his reading and his inner mockery of it that he didn't notice Alex's hand move until it was at her forehead, her fingertips running over the monitor tabs stuck to her skin. The noise from the heart rate monitor connected to her sped up fractionally, enough to be noticeable. He watched as her hand lowered, brushing over her nose and chin down to her chest, where it again felt for the monitors stuck to her. Her fingers lingered over the one closest to House, and he noticed belatedly that the skin was red and inflamed there. Perhaps she was allergic to the tape. He watched her scratch at it and decided yes, she was reacting to it. He made a mental note to speak to the nurses about changing her over to the non-reactive . . .

And finally House realized what it all meant. He looked up at Alex's face and velvet-brown eyes looked back at him.

"Greg." Her voice was fragile, barely a whisper, but unmistakable. Not only was she speaking, she'd said his name.

House was on his feet in a moment, book tumbling to the floor, cane forgotten, everything forgotten. He leaned over her, brushing the hair back from her forehead, leaving his hand resting on her head. "Alex?"

"Yes," she said, her voice cracking.

"You're an idiot," he spat, voice full of venom, all his fear and grief and devastation from the past five days escaping in three words. "Why did you do it?"

"You saved me," Alex said, ignoring his words. She even managed a small smile.

"No, you saved me, but you've nearly killed me these past few days."

"Tilly?" Alex asked.

"Is fine. With her Uncle Wilson. Probably throwing up all over him as we speak."

"Good." Alex breathed out and her eyes closed again.

A moment of silence descended and suddenly House was filled with the panic that he'd hallucinated it, that Alex hadn't just opened her eyes and spoken to him. "Alex?" he said urgently. He took his hand from her forehand and shook her shoulder – the un-bandaged one.

Alex's eyes flickered open again. "Yes, Greg?" she answered patiently.

"Stay awake," he urged.

"Okay, for a while," she said, her voice still croaky. She breathed raggedly. "My chest hurts."

"So it should," he said, keeping his comments curt and short to prevent himself from collapsing into the relief that consumed him.

"And I'm tired."

"_You're_ tired? I'm the one who's been awake for practically five days. And looking after a baby with a cold."

"I had to come a long way to get back to you."

House stilled at that. He took her hand, unable to name the emotions that swamped him when she curled her fingers around his. "I'm glad you did," he choked out eventually.

-

* * *

-

**Six months later**

Maria only came on Fridays now, to do the housework. She would also cook a meal, just because that was what she wanted to do. Alex was happy to let her – Maria's meal took the place of the take out they would usually have had on Friday night anyway. More often than not, James Wilson joined them for food, beer and a cuddle with Tilly – he liked the baby much more now that she had outgrown her habit of frequent regurgitation.

Kelly had stayed working full-time until Alex was physically well enough to take care of Tilly alone. Kelly hadn't been interested in a part-time job, so now they had Hayley, who was perfectly competent for the two days a week she worked, but who was deathly afraid of House, and always found a reason to leave if he was ever home at the same time she was.

For the two days that Hayley took care of Tilly, Alex worked on her hitherto abandoned PhD thesis. She was almost three-quarters finished and her supervisor had been very encouraging. Alex wasn't sure exactly why her enthusiasm for her thesis had been renewed so enthusiastically, but she didn't want to question it, just wanted to take advantage of it.

On those two days Alex also made the trek to Mayfield for appointments with Dr Beasley. She occasionally wondered if they were necessary, but then something would come up in one of their sessions, or something stressful would happen at home, and Alex knew it would be a while yet before she could consider herself fully recovered. Especially given her partner was prone to saying and doing exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time and occasionally Alex wondered whether anyone completely sane could ever stand to live with the man.

"I'm slacking off," House announced, appearing in the doorway to the room that had become a shared office for them both.

Alex looked around in surprise, her head had been buried in analysis of Rimbaud's _Illuminations_ – the text she credited with bringing her back from that swarming darkness – and she hadn't even heard the front door open and close. "What time is it?"

"It's only two o'clock. But I had no patient and it's sunny outside, Mom," he said, whining like a petulant child.

"Isn't there something else you should be doing? Like clinic duty? Or paperwork?" Alex said, putting on a fake stern face. "James was telling me you are six months' behind in your charting and—"

"You're as bad as Cuddy," House said, scowling.

"Hayley is here. You'd better make yourself scarce."

A mischievous look lit up his face. "Maybe I could sneak up on her and swear loudly in her ear. Or maybe I could put on a porn movie and abuse myself on the sofa just as she walks in the room. Or take you into the kitchen and bend you over the counter and make you scream until she comes in to find out—"

"Stop it," Alex said laughing.

"Have you been to see weasely Beasley yet today?"

"Yes, I went this morning."

"So you can slack off this afternoon too." He gave her a broad cheesy grin.

"Greg, I have only two more months to get the first draft of my thesis done."

"Two months!" he scoffed. "That's forever. Don't you and Tilly want to go to the park? Or we could drive down to the beach? Or . . . we can sit on the sofa and watch TV . . . that'd be good."

Alex frowned for a moment, but she knew it was pointless. She'd never be able to concentrate if he was home – odds were if she refused to do something with him, the Wii would be on and blasting through the house in minutes anyway. With an indulgent sigh she turned back to her computer, saved the document and then shut it down.

House chuckled with glee and she heard him disappear down the corridor. By the time she reached the living room he was sitting on the sofa, feet up on the table, a beer in his hand. Hayley was standing in the kitchen, a frozen expression of panic on her face. Alex wondered what on earth he could have said in the few moments it would have taken him to walk to the refrigerator and back.

"Hayley, why don't you take off for today?" Alex suggested kindly, reaching out to take Tilly from her arms. "We'll be fine here, Greg has the rest of the day off."

"If you're sure," Hayley said her words uncertain, but every other thing about her showing her complete relief, particularly the fact that she had already grabbed her purse and started to head for the door.

"I'm sure. Go have fun. Enjoy the weather – it's a gorgeous summer day," Alex said, following her outside.

"Thanks, Mrs House."

Alex had corrected Hayley a number of times, asked her to call her Alex, but House's presence rattled the girl so much she forgot.

Shaking her head, Alex walked out into the yard to collect the mail, giving Hayley a wave as she drove off.

Tilly squinted in the bright sunlight and Alex brought a hand up to shade her face. "It's a pretty day, isn't it _ma chou chou_?" Alex said. "Almost as pretty as you." She pressed a kiss to the baby's cheek and Tilly giggled, putting her chubby hands out to grab Alex's ears.

Back inside, Alex sat down on the sofa next to House. Tilly squirmed around, reaching out for her father.

"Take Tilly," Alex said. "She's in a giggly mood today. Just like you."

House put his beer down and took the little girl, tickling her stomach until she giggled again.

Alex went through the mail she'd brought in, as smile on her face as she listened to her daughter's laughter and House's silly noises as he played with her. She sorted through various bills, junk mail and a couple of House's journal subscriptions.

A hand-written envelope made her frown and she turned it over curiously. No return address.

She put the other mail down on the table and split the heavy cream envelope open with a finger, reaching in to pull out a single page of notepaper. The handwriting was instantly familiar to her and Alex felt a sharp stab of anxiety pierce through her formerly happy mood.

Something about her breathing or her posture gave her away, because House looked up from playing with the baby and frowned. "What is it?"

"A letter from my father," Alex breathed.

"Oh, crap." House shuffled closer. "What does it say?"

Alex began to read aloud, translating the Argentinean Spanish into English for House's benefit.

"_My darling Alexa, I know you will never understand why I had to put you and your family in danger. It was essential for me to uncover the bad apple in my team and now that I have done so I promise you I will never do anything like that again._"

"He'd better fucking not," House muttered.

"_As you know, for many years I have been providing you with money each month. From now on I will no longer do that – I feel it would be better for your peace of mind if I do not have any kind of regular contact with you. Instead, I have arranged for a single deposit of one million US dollars to be put into your account. You can do with this what you like, but I hope that you chose to put some of it into trust for my granddaughter._" Alex paused in her reading and swallowed hard, overcome by emotion.

"Or have a really shit-hot party," House said, trying to put some levity into the situation.

Alex didn't smile. "_You know how to contact me, and you are welcome to do so at any time, but I will not try to contact you. Please understand that I do this only to protect you and your family. I remain, your loving Papa. M._"

"What does that mean?" House asked, shuffling Tilly around as she pulled the collar of his shirt in her fists.

"It means we're safe," Alex said.

"Why? Why now?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. We just are." She couldn't explain it, but she somehow knew this was her father's guarantee that everything would be okay now.

House gave her an assessing look and then spoke, hesitantly. "Do you remember Javier?"

"From Christmas Day?" Alex asked, frowning. "The one who killed Santino?"

"Yeah. He's gone back to college."

"What?"

"After following us, listening in to my calls, he decided he liked medicine and he's given up the gangster life to be a nurse."

"Are you _serious_?"

"Yep. He called to let me know he got in. Little shit wants me to get him a job when he's done."

Alex shook her head at the irony. Then she laughed.

"It's not that funny."

For some reason that made Alex laugh harder.

"It's really not _that_ funny," House protested.

Tilly caught the giggles from her mother and began to chuckle her baby laugh too.

House looked between Alex and the baby sitting in his lap. "What is this? I'm surrounded by insane females. Keep this up and it's back to Mayfield with you both."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_, I love you," Alex said, pressing a kiss to his cheek through her laughter.

"_Un Dieu n'existe pas_," House corrected.

Alex shook her head. He still looked like her angel. Her fallen angel who said that God did not exist, who'd killed her to set her free and then saved her all over again. "Maybe not, but angels do," Alex said.

House screwed up his face. "Nutter. I knew it. Should have left you there."

Alex reined in her laughter and took his hand in hers. "Come on, let's make the most of your afternoon of freedom. What do you want to do?"

House raised his eyebrows suggestively and Alex smiled. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really." He looked down at the smiling baby. "Let's tire this one out first so she sleeps for the rest of the day."

And they did.

.

.

The End

©Gertrude2034


End file.
